Redressing The Wound

So I broke apart and bleed in public again. In a Starbucks, no less. The few that asked about my tearful eyes and swollen nose were told, “The Santa Anas have started, and they are taking their due.”. They would smile and nod in understanding, pass on their seasonal advice, and promptly forget about me.

I’ve gotten better at holding my shit in public. Those around me chuckled at my snorkeling and snuffling. I may have winked at a few in mock sympathy.

Instead, I verbally bled online. Facebook, this time, was the chalice that received my corrupted offering. It’s usually Twitter that gets the brunt. The 140 character limit acts as a damper, slowing me down and giving me time to regain myself before I really get too deep. But the memory trigger was on Facebook, and as such, I bled where I stood.

And such bleeding. Five years of repressed memories came to me with such fierceness, I was stunned by the arrival. Physically, I was quite safe, for even if I had a thousand loaded guns at hand, I would not have been able to take up a single one. I was too busy caught up in the multitude of relived experiences.

Such bleeding that poured. I tried to stop the flow, to dampen the spreading stain, but it went on and on and on. Some kind folks tried to help, but I could not understand their words. For every drop that wept into a status, there was barrel still pouring into my head. And there were many, many drops that baptized my profile in a profane display.

Some of those that read suddenly understood some of my peculiarities. Some just dismissed me as so much dramawhoring. Most just sat back and watched my world burn. It doesn’t matter what those that read think of me.

It should never have happened. The tainted phrases should never have been posted. True to their source, they only corrupt the little good I have found, forever marking me as unclean.

I will not be pitied. I find the sentiment to be another link in the crushing chain I continually struggle against. To be pitied is to be boxed in. Labeled as “Permanently Broken” and talked to like a little child that lost her Dolly. There is a look that goes with the phrases. I know it too damn well. It’s the look my doctor gave me when I asked why did the dosage have to be so high. It’s the look my parents gave me when my grades fell and I could not achieve their expectations. It’s the pause before people in chat answer me. The sudden silence that precedes their unannounced disconnection.

Poor Keri. She understands many facts about nothing, and yet, she has no understanding about what really matters. ~pats Keri on her head gently~

By the time I regained enough of my senses to realize what I was doing, and where, it was too late. The private messages had already begun. The snide comments in other groups already posted. Keri has shown her unclean, tainted, demonic ass. Pity her, for she knows not how fucked she is.

I mentioned elsewhere, that whatever reputation my name develops, the onus is all on me. I can’t blame anyone else. Very well then. I fucked up. I slipped up. I showed a part of myself I did not want on Facebook. I deleted the statuses and posted a Mea Culpa. But the damage is already done.

I will not run and hide. I will not retreat from the ground I have clawed and bit to gain. But I will not accept pity, either. Show your ass to me, and I will strike it viciously.

Many of my contacts on Facebook are strong people. They’ve gone through worse than me, and are still standing. Perhaps that’s why I (erroneously) felt safe enough to bleed there. How wrong I was.

Ah well. It’s old news now. The important part is I’ve identified the trigger. Next time I’m presented with it, it won’t be able to bite me again. I’ve also identified certain groupings that are not healthy for me. I had noticed the dynamic had changed, it wasn’t how it was before. A new krew runs that kingdom now, and they have made it plain I am not welcome there anymore. I will not remove my armor before them again. I did not give them my due, I owe them nothing.

I’m venting because I’m still sore from one last event. Most of those that saw this morning stayed out of the way and let me bleed. The wound had to be purged. A few tried to help, bless them. I hold no illness towards them. I’m sore because I was dismissed. I was harshing someone’s buzz, man. Did you have to throw that in my face?

I remember, having to dress in long sleeve clothing on a 100F day, to hide the bruises on my arms and chest. I remember being asked to enter and leave the building by the side door, lest my tainted aura attract the unwary and the unprepared. I remember begging for forgiveness, for my sin of studying the Bible without an elder’s “protection”. I remember confiding in a fellow church sister, that the visions had never left me, that I was only ignoring them because I wanted to be found pure. I remember her hanging up on me and calling the elder right then and there to tell him my confession. She told me she did so, because she was afraid that I would corrupt her by telling her about it.

She turned me in, for talking too much.

This morning, as I started to regain my senses, I was asked (on Facebook), when I would stop crying because I was posting too much.

Some things don’t change, do they.