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05-13-03 - 12:49 a.m.

This is the twisted logic by which I live:

I reject and despise love because love equals pain. I say this because the only times I ever heard my father tell me he loved me was during the times he was raping me. In other words, my father "loved" me almost every day. "Love" equals pain. I connect the word with fear, confusion, and all-out rage. Too, I connect it with images of my father, his penis, darkness, and a variety of objects: screwdrivers, crowbars, bottlenecks, fingers, eating utensils, anything he could make fit in my vagina�and like the saying goes, "when there's a will, there's a way" to make almost anything fit. The worst was the lighter. One of those long handled things used for lighting barbecues. He shoved it inside me, causing immense pain, and told me that if I screamed or made any sound at all, he'd press the button, igniting the flame inside me. In and out and in and out, deeper, and I bled and bit my lip till it bled to keep from making a sound, but I couldn't help it, I couldn't handle it, and I cried out and he pressed the button and I screamed�but it had been turned off all along, so no flame came out. And he laughed at me and told me to shut up as he undressed to take the place of the lighter. And as he came closer and closer to orgasm, he said he loved me, even though I was a whore, and that if I wanted to be a good girl I shouldn't be such a slut all the time, but I didn't understand it. I never initiated this, why was I the immoral one?

Before Brent died, Janet told me the only way I would ever be able to accept what happened enough to move on without its shadow was to face him. Numerous times she implored me to get him to come to her office, but I never had the courage. Once I no longer had to see him I stayed as far from him as I could. I remember bumping into him once at the mall and having him feel me up, in public, his hand reaching down into my jeans and into my underwear. And I remember shaking when I walked away to the bathroom to hide and call Rob, so he could come get me (I didn't drive yet).

I shook all day today, too. I don't know why all this is suddenly so heavy on my shoulders, but it is, and it's terrible, and that's why I had to cut my wrist.

I cut my wrist the other night. I drew a deeply gashed box around my veins and slowly started to peel the skin away. It was a distraction, just a powerful distraction. Pain is real. Emotional, physical, it's all that's real. But physical pain is temporary, and bleeding is a release. I had to get 38 stitches and I gushed all over my kitchen, and now I'll be left with a grotesque scar, but it worked. I accomplished what I set out to accomplish: I stopped myself from feeling that emotional pain. You see, the worse the pain in your heart, the more you have to hurt your skin. That way, it balances out.

I hate that I'm such a freak, or at least that I feel like one. I hate that my vagina has been scarred since I was three, I hate that I'm terrified of hands coming at me, even if it's just to shake. I hate that I'm dependent on sex when I know deep down that sex is the reason all of this started. I hate that Rob loves me unconditionally and moreso, I hate that I can't love him back because I'm too afraid of becoming my mother and he in turn becoming my father. I hate that I can never be well because my father died before I could face him, and I hate that he got off so easy when I'm stuck here with so much responsibility it exhausts me. And I hate that every time I sleep I see a different scene from my childhood, which in turn has made it impossible for me to really sleep, and I hate how FUCKING EXHAUSTED I am.

All I want is to sleep and not dream and not wake. I don't want to die, I just want to sleep. But he won't let me. He never let me when I was little�no, he would sneak into my room and tie me to my bed and blindfold me so he and often some of his friends could shove their dicks in my mouth, in my ass, in my pussy, anywhere they wanted, and then ejaculate all over me�but I couldn't make a sound. If I made any noise at all, the hands came. They came to my neck to shut me up by force, they'd squeeze my neck till I felt dizzy, or on two occasions lost consciousness, and on one occasion, fractured my larynx. So many accidents for the Dawson child. How can one little girl be so clumsy? And isn't she a dancer? Isn't she that spectacular gymnast, the one who wins all the city and county competitions? The one whose best event is BEAM?! Isn't it a wonder that her neighbor so often drives her to these contests? Isn't it strange that such a sure-footed young child would be such a klutz when out of the public eye?

Strange.

 

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