I recently figured out that my early childhood sexual trauma, for lack of a better word (no desire to think about it deeply enough to be more descriptive), caused me to initially dissociate from my body. I remember actually thinking it didn't matter what he did to my body, or what he had me do with it, because my body belonged to my parents. I had no right to it. I felt like it was the economic property of, well, him.
So when the abuses stopped, I started feeling a little lost. What do I do with this new body that was suddenly given to my care? I did what everyone else had done to it. Starved, hit, cut. I didn't put it into any sexual situations, but that was only because sexual situations involve other people, and I'm not capable of seeking people. It did seem to be a very natural thing to go for, however.
So now everything makes sense. And it seems a bit easier to control things, now. I guess I'm realising that I'm attached to my body, and he is the only reason I spent so long trying to destroy it. And. It's not easy. But it's easier. I think if I learn to actually blame him, it will help more. As it is now, I still mostly blame myself. But. I'm getting better.
I still cut or hit myself when I'm sad. But it's not done in hate, as it so often was, and somehow that seems better to me. Less vile.
I'm reading a story, and a character reminds me of myself. She paints abstract paintings, and she doesn't believe in tame emotions. She's also passive-aggressive as all hell. And very jealous. She also engages in some lovely self-destructive behaviors because of love/jealousy. (Her eyes are even greenish, which I almost consider a personality trait in itself.) Intensity. The only consistent character trait that I have.
It's nice to see myself in pages. I love Japanese literature. And politics. And music. And fashion. My life, lately. Some people take drugs. I worship beauty and knowledge. And then proceed to bounce off of walls.
Oscar Wilde is my role model.
revoless.
3:01 p.m.
March 16, 2002.
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