I’m terrified to post this. It’s just so personal. I’m not good at expressing emotions, in life, or in writing. And, when it involves taking a hot poker to repressed pain, forget about it. I dissociate when it gets too close—my mind blanks and I go somewhere else. This is an automatic trauma-response that leaves me looking like a dolt in all kinds of situations. Recently, my dissociation became so frequent and disruptive that I had to reach out for help. It all seemed to materialize out of nowhere—for the very first time my life had been stable, secure, and meaningful. So why the sledgehammer? Turns out you can’t hide from yourself. If your feelings aren’t dealt with, they’ll find another way to surface and fuck you.
Admittedly, this post took forever to complete because I dissociated at every turn. But, as will hopefully become clear, it’s something I had to do.
Also: I quit vaping cold turkey a few days ago, and now, I’m mental (more mental). Let’s see how this goes.
*Names have been changed or left out to protect privacy*
After my last post about my abusive, biker, coke-dealer ex who’s suddenly decided to transition into a “woman,” I was asked how I feel about it. I’m terrible at expressing feelings. I’m much better at telling colorful stories that pussy-foot around emotions until you can feel them, too. But I will say this—in the end, after all the abuse, after all his berating, humiliating, and dehumanizing, he’s the one getting his “tits done, and [dick] snipped” (Jail, Dead or Crazy). Rather poetic, no? I find it fascinating that a person who hates women so much is now dying to become one. He always did have a vicious hatred for himself, so I suppose it makes sense. Taz never knew who he was and I doubt he ever will. Like me, like a lot of us, he’s terrified of what he might find.
“Your vision will become clear only when you look into your own heart. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.” — Carl Jung
I started seeing a therapist a couple of months ago. I was a mess and nothing else was working—the gym, vitamins, time off, rest, indulgence, “me time.” My world had been sliced into a million pieces, and I stood watching as they all slipped apart. I took to berating myself—Everyone hates you. You’re an idiot, a fucking loser. Why’d you say that? Why’d you do that? Everyone thinks you’re weird. You’re not normal. You’re crazy! You’re a failure, a fuck up, a bad person. You should just kill yourself (there’s nowhere left to go after that one, also nothing I’d seriously consider). Was this a bipolar episode? I was probably due for one. But it felt different.
I opened up to my new therapist. I told him a story.
…I was fourteen. I ran from the group home. It was the place for bad kids, and fuck up delinquents with nowhere to go. They stole my things, pushed me around, and kicked my ribs. I ran after, aimless, up alleys and empty side streets. I found myself at a familiar house, long and low behind a perfectly trimmed lawn. It looked the same, but I was different. I caught my breath before I reached for the doorbell.
Bing, boooongggg!
Bing, bong! Bing booooongggg!
A little old man answered.
“Hello,” he said, studying my black eyes and torn clothes.
“Um…” I was confused. How hard was I kicked in the head?
A little old lady appeared next to him. “Hello dear. Can we help you?”
“Uh.” I was embarrassed by their concerned faces. “Is…is _____ here?”
“Oh,” the soft-spoken man glanced at his wife. “No. Sorry. We bought this house about a month ago.”
My guts sank. I turned to leave, and tripped down the steps.
“Are you hungry?” the lady said.
“Would you like to come in to make a call?” the man said.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t bear it. I wandered off empty, gutted, with my insides dragging behind me.
I was beat up again the following week. This time by a gang of natives. They bruised me up, and spat on my face. I ran again, back to my estranged house, avoiding the lights and main streets. It was dangerous at night. I startled at thunder, and wind-swept leaves. I didn’t ring the doorbell this time. I rounded to the back, sat on the cold ground, and wrapped my arms around my knees. I just sat there, rocking, crying, dreaming about who I could be. The storm snatched up my tears and carried them through the trees.
I finished my story and looked up at my new therapist. My throat threatened to explode. Tears threatened to pour. I was surprised. I hadn’t cared or thought about this in years.
“What would happen if you let go?”
I tried to clear my throat. “Let go of what?”
“What would happen if you let yourself cry?”
I swallowed and looked away. There was a tidal wave building inside of me. I fought it back. “It’ll be ugly.”
“Ugly how?”
I fought some more. “Like, blood curdling,” I could barely say.
“You’re afraid I’ll leave you, too. That I’ll be scared off by your pain…Kari?...Kari?...”
“Hmm?” I tried to focus on him. “Sorry, what was the question?”
“You’re dissociating again.”
I tried to blink him back into existence. “How’d you know that?”
“Because we’re poking at your core statement.”
“And what’s that?”
“What do you think it is?”
“We’ll save time if you just tell me.”
“You think you’re unlovable.”
A page from my diary, written on October 15th, 2023.
It’s 5:00 am and my mind is blank. I want to write but I don’t know what to say. I have a lot to say, but what will people think? I care too much what other people think, which is how I got here in the first place.
I haven’t been writing. No novels, poetry or short stories. No posts. No creativity. Nothing but me bitching and whining at a screen. About myself, to myself. How self-centered is that?
Writing is the only place where I feel peace. It’s how I make up for not being normal. I can’t be bothered to be normal. I don’t want to marry, have kids, a nine-to-five, family meals and gossipy girlfriends. I’d rather be alone. I’d rather avoid intimacy altogether. Feelings are a weakness, after all. “Feels” come with pain, and I’ve had enough of that. My heart’s been torn out and punted, then trampled into the ground with hateful feet. It won’t survive another go, and I’d like to be left the fuck alone about it.
I told my therapist about a dream I had. I was trapped in a building, running long halls in the dark. I could see the reflection of camera lenses, watching, judging, tracking my every step. I tried to call for help, but my phone was jammed. I couldn’t receive, or send anything out.
According to my therapist, I wall myself in, and other people out. I have to be perfect—beautiful, smart, educated, poised—or I’ll be thrown away, like that fourteen year-old girl in the cold. But don’t worry, I don’t like her either. I’m ashamed of her. Fuck her! She doesn’t exist. I’ll paint a pretty picture instead. How about an impressionist? A Monet! I’ll call it “Le Personnage!” I’ll hold it up so you can admire it from afar. But don’t get too close! It’s ugly from over here. Surely, you wouldn’t like it.
I’ll admit it. I’ve been depressed for weeks. All meaning has slipped through my fingers. I’ve lost interest in the things I once loved. Chopin is dead. Satie, too. I’ve forgotten what my favorite philosophers said, as if it were never said, and never meaningful. Except for this: “Hell is—other people!”
What did Sartre mean by it? I’m scared to look it up. To desolate the pride of the introverts’ slogan…
Ugh. What do you know, things aren’t as they seem.
“So this is hell. I’d never have believed it. You remember all we were told about the torture-chambers, the fire and brimstone, the ”burning marl.” Old wives’ tales! There’s no need for red-hot pokers. Hell is—other people!”
This is from Sartre’s one-act play, No Exit, where three dead people arrive in hell, only to find that their punishment is to interact with each other. They each, as an “other,” constrict one another’s freedom.
There’s no physical torture: it’s the emotional torture of having to relate with others through your own damaged perception of yourself (my own damaged perception of myself). Turns out that people are only hell because I am.
Love is other People
I adjusted my camera then shifted in my seat. My leg was asleep. I stretched it out and waited for the pins and needles.
I’d begun to look forward to our three-hour sessions, as difficult and draining as they could be. Now, we were about halfway through.
“What would you say to her?” my therapist said between puffs of his cigar.
“What would I say to who?” I puffed my vape.
“The fourteen year-old you.”
“I’d say, listen up you little bitch…” I gave a laugh, “just kidding. I wouldn’t say that. I don’t know what I’d say.”
He didn’t find that as funny as I did. “Maybe that’s the story you should tell.”
I tried but I couldn’t. He assigned it as homework, and it sat unfinished for weeks. I was supposed to cry. To feel. To connect. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t accept her as me—all her pain and weakness. All her bullshit and problems.
“You have a special power for loving the unlovable,” he’d said to me once, “but not when the unlovable is you.”
The next month I was in a busy store, weaving around the aisles and slow-moving patrons. There was something about the song playing through the speakers. It ran chills up and down my arms. Adele. Not exactly my kind of music. I mean, it wasn’t Zeppelin, but she wouldn’t let me go. I took her with me out to my car, then drove around singing along.
And then it hit me. I was singing to my past self. My throat burst. I stopped at a red and bawled. It was so loud that the other drivers looked over. They were visibly startled. I mean, what a sight! To lock eyes with a wailing woman in traffic. I didn’t care. It felt too good. I kept the song on repeat until the last tear was shed.
I finally came home and wrote this:
November 26, 2023
It’s 3:00am. I’m at 6th and Chester, waiting for the light. Goddamned thing won’t change. I’m impatient, nervous. I tap the steering wheel with a long nail, glance at my phone—I’m running out of time.
Green.
I take a left on Chester, and drive straight down memory lane. It’s been twenty-five years, and I could go twenty-five more. Or forever. I spot it—a long low bungalow, nestled against the trees. I pull up, cut the engine, and sit for a minute. I focus on the rhythm of the rain on my Mercedes. I take a slow breath. It’s now or never. I won’t ever come back to this small town. I get out, pull up my hood, and walk through the gate. I’m shaking now. Terrified. Then a chill runs the length of me. I see her at the tree line—her bright hair, her arms around her knees. My insides tremble. I take a few steps.
She sees me, freezes, then bolts for the fence. She grips the boards above her head.
“Kari!” I cry out. My throat pains.
She stops at my voice, pulls down her arms, and relaxes them at her sides.
She turns to me with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. I want to tell her that I love her and that everything will be ok. That it’s not her fault. I want to protect her! To warn her! I want to take away her pain!
But I can’t. I love her too much to rob her of it.
I pull her in, and hold her tight. She knows me well from her dreams.
“Believe in yourself,” I tell her. “It’s what you’ll need.”
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