26 12 2011

I told my mom I told her. about it all. Not in details, I don’t really have all the details but I told her all the same. We were at fuzzy tacos. I shouldn’t have ordered three, but I ate them all. If it weren’t for the beer. My mother is one of the least intuitive people…ever. That and she can make almost everything into a guilt trip. Also about her some how.

She kept asking why I didn’t just call the police, or leave.

This went on for how long?

I’ve failed you as a mother.

Why didn’t you leave?

Were you tied up the whole time?

Did he leave?

What else did you do if you weren’t tied up the whole time?
I probably watched TV

I remember laying in bed a lot.

I remember crying a lot.

I remember saying please a lot.

I know I kept thinking that he would leave. That he would understand. Some how. That he needed to leave.

But understanding doesn’t have anything to do with it.

I couldn’t tell my father. I was afraid of what he would do. Though I think I need to give him more credit, he has, it seems at least taken into consideration some self reflection.


My mother plays the victim. A whole lot. Nothing is really her fault. Not really. There’s always an excuse for her behavior, because she’s just reacting, not responding. This makes it extremely difficult to talk to her. Or criticize her. She can’t handle criticism at all. AT. ALL She get’s defensive and doesn’t want to change. I guess she thinks because she’s a good christian, and she tries to live by god,  and the only thing that she seems to be eternally unsatisfied with is her appearance. In six months, she’s gone from a size 12 to a size 4. She’s lost a lot of weight. Probably at least 40lbs. But I look at her now tiny body, she’s so skinny, and has the sagging skin from lost of fat and no gain of muscle mass. I’m worried that she’s so focused on weight she’s sacrificed health. I’ve never learned to love my body from my mother. Nothing about my body. She would call me beautiful and in the same breath say something about the size of my thighs.

Learning to accept my self, body, mind, and soul is more important to me than just loss, loss, loss. Now she isn’t nearly as bad about playing the victim as some people, or probably most people that do.  But still its enough to where its difficult to talk with her.

I accepted a long time ago that I can’t really talk to her. Or learned how to survive with out talking to her, even though I really wanted to. But that was because I could, for the most part I could turn to my father. Even though I completely disagreed with him. And my father doesn’t like when people disagree with him. But for a long time it was okay, because at least I still believed in Jesus. It was like as long as we had that in common essentially there was no problem. Or no real problem. But the thing is that my parents don’t think that people can function with out god.


I don’t know how many times I heard the phrase, “I don’t know how people _________ with out God/Jesus” from my mother. Basically I learned that people are helpless with out God.

Both my parents are control freaks, it manifests in different ways. They often talk about how God is in control, of it all. God’s plan.

This is why meticulous providence is dangerous.

This is why I want to write a book called, “God is a Humanist”. I had the idea when I was a christian, so I don’t doubt that there are other Christians out there, too.

But I’m an atheist. So I guess I need to find a Christian who thinks God is a humanist.

Maybe I have a the makings of a documentary here.
Or an anthropological master’s degree on the psychological effects of the conservative christian church.

I would need to look at pregnant women, young children, teens, young adults, elders, intellectuals, lay, profs, gay, straight, rich, poor, and I have to ask them all the same questions.

But what to ask…

12 12 2011

Its here again that sick feeling. That thing in the pit of my stomach that I can’t tell if its from not eating or because I need to vomit. Have I been drinking too much again? Fear. Fear holds me like a prisoner. I want to shut the world out. I want everything to stop.


I can’t stop saying I.


You can do this, you can do this you can do this. You can Live. really live. There is no reason to be afraid there is no reason to be afraid. He can’t get you.  I’m afarid that if word gets out that I’m saying that he raped me in our hometown….that I’ll see him, again. Every time I go back I get terrified that I’m going to see him again. I can’t see him again. Or his brother, or any of his family.


I can’t do it.

Maybe I won’t recognize him. Maybe he won’t be there.


Am I a coward?

still here

9 12 2011

I’m trying to let myself feel the complexity of my emotions. I’m trying to understand how its okay for me to regret marrying him. Regret dating him, regret, regret, regret so much.

Even though I wouldn’t be who I am, and I love who I am.

Its okay. So many of those things shouldn’t have happened.

Can I ever be at peace with what is though?

I want to stay in Boston. But I think waiting a year at least for grad school might be best. So that means I need to find a job. A job that will give me insurance, with really good mental health benefits that’s accepted by BIT. And I really, really hope that I could maybe continue to see my current counselor after May.

I really would prefer to not have to start completely over again.

I will however still be looking in to artist residencies. Which I’m very excited about but also am not going to stress about getting into them.