Counting Stars…

Coulda Woulda Shoulda

May 19, 2008 at 4:01 am (Irrational, Needs, Sur-Past)

This is one of those weird journal-like entries that I know I write just to get it out of my system. I can’t tell anyone because it isn’t something you’d say easily, I know it will not have a structure and maybe it won’t even make sense, yet i feel the need to put it out there even for one night and then I will shut up again. I usually write these things down on paper, but I can’t do it now. It is emotionally mortifying enough as it is, and writing has always been a very personal thing for me. Tomorrow I may discard it as absurd and delete it, but today it is screaming to get out. I can’t believe it even when i’m writing it, but I better do it soon. After all, it’s my life we’re talking about.

Actually, it is not my life. It is the life of someone else that can’t be me. I know I’ve thought of that before and always felt like a complete idiot re-reading it again or reading it in someone else’s posts, but lately I am more convinced about it than ever. These things happen in movies and in theatrical plays and in books and in my fantasy to make me feel significant when I overcome them, but not for real, not to me. I’m not here, this isn’t happening. I can’t believe I am about to cry, I promised I wouldn’t cry anymore because it is absurd, because I have cried when I bet my mentality on tails, the coin turned up heads, I forced myself to accept the outcome and suffered from it and now I’m also crying because I realize it actually shows tails and I was right all along. There’s no point and it doesn’t make any difference what I do or how I react, it’s not even relieving. It actually makes it worse. I stood on the yard and I looked at the sky like I always do when I am not well, and I painted pictures on the clouds above whenever the thought became too complicated and unbearable, and I broke it down and analyzed it and convinced myself that it doesn’t change anything, that my life is not affected at all, that I should continue on without thinking about it ever again. But here I am, in the middle of the night, sobbing like a baby for a million things I can’t even understand yet.

I hate crying. Crying is for the weak, those who seek attention, those who aren’t bothered with real tragedies in their lives. Those of us who’ve actually gone through hell and back know there’s no time to cry, no room for psychological and mental weaknesses. When I was younger, I thought it made me “cool” to say I was a troubled, challenged, fate-beaten child. It made me feel more important to share with others what hard times I was going through, even if I was indeed experiencing more bad stuff than most people. Still something inside me, a little voice told me I was “pretending” to some degree, that it wasn’t all that bad because, if it was, I wouldn’t share it with anyone. Yet here I am now, having held inside me so many things I’m ready to burst, and this time that little voice is screaming to let it out for fuck’s sake or else I will really damage myself. And there’s no coolness in it, no feeling of importance or pride. Only puzzlement, complete lack of safety, terror and, I believe later on, anger and pain. Giannis told me once he’s proud of me keeping it together even with all that’s been happening to me and I so liked the feeling, I hadn’t thought about it until then and it made me feel confident. So I will not prove him wrong now that a new dump of real shit hits the fan. I promise, to everything that’s sacred to me, after tonight, to never cry again in my life. But tonight I can’t help it.

I used to have a sibling. This is the first time I write it down and seeing it on the screen actually makes it more real than ever. When I was young, I had a brother. I HAD A BROTHER. I WAS NOT ALONE. I HAD A BROTHER. Maybe I had a sister too. I can’t be sure about it, just as I can’t be sure about anything, except that I am not crazy. But I’m sure I had a brother, and that’s enough, though something is telling me I used to be a part of a triad. Exactly like something was telling me all these years that I was not crazy, no matter what others thought and made me believe. And this is the cause of it all. This is what hurts most of all. I have been lied to. ALL THESE YEARS. I HAVE BEEN LIED TO AND BEAT MYSELF UP FOR IT. ALL THESE YEARS. I asked, and I asked again, and I searched and I spoke to everyone but they all treated me like I was crazy, stupid, irrational or, at best, ignored me. They took me to shrinks and psychologists to treat my psychosis and my outbursts and I took it all in without complaining much in the end; hell, if so many agreed with it then it must be true (WHAT A MISTAKE! HOW DID I MAKE SUCH A BIG MISTAKE?) Because I had more faith in them than in me, I believed I was losing my mind thinking everyone’s hiding something from me, I believed I was crazy feeling alone and abandoned all the time and never spoke about it again to anyone. I believed I was experiencing so vivid dreams that I mistook them for memories. I have suppressed my natural instinct and danger sense to a minimum because everyone around me told me the same things, the same lies. And now I found out. And it is too late to turn these things back on.

Twisting the knife in the wound, I found out totally by mistake. If it was up to them, they would never tell me. “They” of course is my mother, my family, my ENTIRE family, my family friends, their kids, my teachers, my shrinks… Everyone knew, except me, and it was indeed a great conspiracy to keep me from knowing the truth. Suddenly all those awkward glances make sense, all those dry coughs and change of subjects mean something. And they have the nerve to tell me “we never came together to discuss this and agreed not to tell you, it just didn’t make it into conversation” and the even more hilarious, “we were expecting you to ask, and then we would have told you about it”. Even now that I know, even now that I am shoving the proof down their throats, THEY ARE TREATING ME LIKE I AM RETARDED. What, they didn’t agree to tell me yet somehow over the last 20 years it never popped into conversation? And for the love of God, how many fucking people do they know that would wake up one fine morning, brush their teeth and think “hey didn’t I have an older brother, and maybe a baby sister as well, who died?”

So they say they did it for my own good, because what good would come if I knew anyway? And this is where the real madness starts. My own good? MY OWN FUCKING GOOD? I spent my life up until now shivering under my covers crying my eyes out so many nights feeling abandoned and alone, and every morning after I slapped my face and slammed my head against the wall and bit my lips and my fingers until they bled and told myself I am crazy and needy and just feel this way because I want attention and to shut up and toughen up and forget about it… and that was for my own good? I had everyone around me treating me like a mad relative you can’t do anything about, I convinced myself I was losing it, they were treating me for something I didn’t even have, and were so devoted that I actually believed it myself and started curing the symptoms I made myself have… and that was good? They chose to literally suck my mental and psychological strength out than to admit they were hiding something, they dragged me around, they put me through so much… I have cried so many nights, I have sacrificed so many experiences out of fear and shame, I have gained so much pain and embarrassment… because it was for my own good? Because they know what I’ve gone through, I was under close surveillance all the time, they know what I was thinking since I was stupid enough to speak it out, they could see how much it was affecting me and they discarded it as “teenage reactions”. They knew I somehow knew, and they didn’t stop; they pushed harder and bent me so much that I actually broke and admitted I am ridiculous and hallucinating and weird and promised never to talk about my “strange feelings” ever again because they weren’t normal. They convinced me I was crazy. And I will hate them for that forever.

What kills me though, what makes this whole thing obnoxious to the point of surreal is that I somehow knew. I knew it. I FELT IT. I know I’ve asked about a million times how come everyone in my family, all my cousins are in doubles or more, and I am the only single child. I know it is a ridiculous question, I knew it while I was posing it, yet I knew I just had to ask because it somehow didn’t make sense to me. And I was 8 when I asked that for the first time, and that should give them a clue. I asked again when I was 16 and once more they said nothing. Half of them stood silently, shaking their heads and ignoring my questions, as if they were accepting what I said only because they knew I was retarded or with the cold, compassionate smile of someone who doesn’t care enough. The other half fought me head on, called me crazy, stupid, too emotional, too much of a dreamer, took me to 6 psychologists, 2 shrinks and 1 social service bitch to quieten me up. But I knew it. Fuck me hard, I actually wrote a WRAITH backgroud about it! How much more ironic can it get? Mother says I couldn’t have known, for I was too young to remember them. Because of course, mother knows all. She knows what I think, she knows how I feel, she knows I won’t be affected just as she knows soul is an illusion and there’s no such thing as “psychological overload”. Oh I know all about what my mother knows.

But I definitely remember him. She is wrong. Now that I know, I remember him. I REMEMBER. It is blurry or just a still image, but it is there and for the first time, I am allowing myself to accept it as a fact and not a delusion. I remember him holding my hand while we were waiting for a yellow bus and I remember him giving me a bird to pet that he found in the yard of our kindergarten. I remember him standing by me when I broke my leg when I was 3 and was unconscious, and I remember him grabbing me by the neck and carrying me awkwardly around the house. I remember him being sick and lying on the bed, lifting his shirt up for the doctor, and me climbing up next to him and mimicking him. I remember him standing by the door, asking if I’d like to play the doctor with him while our parents were in the living room with guests. And I remember him crossing the road to a candy store on a very rainy afternoon, holding my father’s hand and the car that hit them. I can’t believe all this is coming back to me. I remember their clothes. I remember my clothes. I remember a moment of confusion as I looked out the car’s window at my father, brother and a baby on the road and wanting to get out and run to them, and then remembering my father telling me not to get out of the car for any reason whatsoever. I know they were out to buy someone’s birthday cake. I know exactly what road that is. I don’t know how, but I do. Just like I know now why I am afraid of thunders. And why I was sexually aware since as long as I can remember.

I had a brother and no one told me about this, but somehow I knew. I remember being 4 or 5 and crying behind the door of my room and, even though I couldn’t remember what was happening, my mind replied to my question with a shrieking “because you were alone”.And that’s not an acceptable answer for a 4-year old, 4-year olds don’t feel alone. Now it all makes sense, now suddenly little pieces that never really fit before magically form the real picture. Now memories I didn’t see clearly and little kinks I never really paid attention to pop up and beat me to the punch. Now I remember I had too many legos. Now I understand why my father called me with a boy’s nickname. Now I remember my room was painted blue until I was quite old. Now I understand why I had a sliding bed. Now I remember there were 2 socks hanging in front of the fireplace on Christmas. Now I understand why my parents were so alarmed I had to change schools when I told one of my teachers that I had a brother. Now I remember I found a picture of him once and was told he is a distant cousin from abroad. Now I understand why I found that picture in my mother’s drawer under her handkerchiefs and not in a photo album.

This hurts so much. Too much. It hurts because I believed them and accepted that, since so many people call me insane, crazy, weird, strange, unsettling or not worth noticing, I must really be all that and more. I trusted the people around me, those people that say they love me or those people that had the degrees to help me out, I trusted their judgment above my own and, even though it made me feel so ashamed I couldn’t even meet my own gaze in the mirror, I made myself believe that I was slightly insane. Literally. Honestly. I came to terms with it and planned my life around that fact. They say the first step is acceptance, and after so long I have achieved that. It is so shameful to admit to yourself that you’re insane. It is so shameful. And now that I’ve convinced myself, they all turn around and tell me there’s no need to feel this way because we were lying to you all this time, you’re not insane, we just didn’t tell you for your own good. It’s like a really bad prank, and the joke’s on me. The shock is so intense, it’s numbing me. Now I REALLY can’t think straight, NOW i feel crazy indeed. I can’t believe it. But it’s true. My mother cried on the phone when I told her I found out, and she never cries. So it is definitely true. Sometime in my past, I wasn’t so alone.

That’s why I cry. That’s why I am so afraid all the time. That’s the answer to the question I’ve been asking myself all these years. “Why am I so fucking scared of being left alone? It’s not because my father died, it’s not because my friend died, it’s not because my ex hunts me down, it’s not because of anything recent because I remember being 6 and being scared. So what is it?” I always believed that if I found the answer to this question, I would fight it and beat it and I’d feel better, like my life would finally be unhooked. But it feels the same, even worse. It feels the same because it is something that happened so long ago that it can’t affect my everyday life. But everything is out of place. When you meet someone and they ask you about your life, ever since you first started telling the story of where you’re from and how you grew up, you keep repeating the same information again and again, without putting much thought to it until you reach the recent past. It is terrifying to realize that the very first piece of information, the part of that routine you never had to think about because it’s been the same ever since you started sharing it around, is fundamentally changed. The story of my life is changed. How on earth do I cope with that?

I don’t know what to do with this now. Everything feels the same, yet so many things are suddenly put into a very twisted and highly unhealthy perspective. How many of my mother’s pregnancy tales were during my gestation? How many of my childhood achievements were really mine? How many of my toys were bought for me? How many of my clothes were my own? How many of my childhood pictures were torn or hidden so I wouldn’t suspect anything? WHAT ELSE HAVE I BEEN LIED TO ABOUT? That there is the question that’s ripping me apart. Ever since I can remember, when we argued, my mother always said she never hid anything from me, that her life was an open book. And even though I knew it wasn’t true since everyone lies at some point, a part of me believed it and felt confident, stronger, more eager to share and to depend. I laugh now because I know I’m so difficult to open up and I absolutely refuse to depend on anyone; I never could do it and now I know the excuse I always knew I had. For the first time, I am really on my own and can’t trust anyone but myself. The one person I thought would never mislead me actually hides more than I can bear. It hurts for more reasons than I can think of. All these years when I felt alone, I always believed that my mother will be here for me to support me and look out for me, just like all mothers do. And it hurts like hell to come face to face with the truth.

And, because the insanity never ends, even in this mess I blame myself. Because I have said so nasty things to her over the years, not knowing she had such a burden in her heart. I have told her she’s incompetent since all of my cousins are in pairs and she only had me, and after such a long time from their marriage. I have told her so many times I’d be so much better if I had an older brother to look after me now that my father is dead. I have screamed at her that God did well not to give her another child for no other child could bear all the things I had, that she’d drive it mad just like she was doing with me and that I’d kill it with my own hands to get back at her. I have actually said that out loud and that is a terrible thing to say.

But she has done far worse to me and I shouldn’t forgive her so easily. I am her child, the only one she has left, and she has spent the best part of my youth trying to convince me I am out of my mind. And I want to yell at her and scream and beat her up and never talk to her again but I can’t, because she’s all I got and I won’t have her for much longer because she is probably very sick. I say probably because she doesn’t tell me what the results showed even though she knows I have guessed she had the tests but lately she’s been pressuring me to learn how to fill my tax report on my own, to get our security deposit’s number and memorize it, to show me where we keep the contracts, who owes us what, who do we owe what, how to get her retirement pension; she’s been so nice to me, so loving, so caring, so supportive and embracing… and that can only mean something’s not right. But this isn’t how it’s supposed to be, this isn’t even one thing at a time; I could take one thing at a time, I’ve been doing it for so long, but this is too much. I am 22 years old, no one should experience this, no one should even know this is happening to a beloved one. This is too much. I can’t take much longer, why is this happening? I shouldn’t be thinking about her, this is my time to react, violently, angrily, stressfully, brutally.

There you go sweetie, now you know. Now you actually know and it doesn’t make it better. It doesn’t make it safer, more free, more careless. It actually hurts so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so much.

I am tired. I. Am. Tired.

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