A Bad Day (Trigger Warning)

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The last time I had a breakdown was about a year ago when I was working as a cashier. I’ve worked as a cashier before, but working at a location where it was primarily male dominated made things a bit different. During this time, I was also attending a Trauma Support Group.

I reported to work like any other day, but I wasn’t prepared for the man with the eyes of a downright pervert; eyes like that is hard to miss, they just stare at you like you are some piece of meat;ready to pounce on you like a lion. I started to scan all his items. I was reaching for the last item and his hand caressed mine, “You’re so delicious. I’m looking for a woman. Interested?” His stare was nauseating. I immediately pulled my hand back and gave him his total. He paid and left. My hand trembled. I grabbed my hand sanitizer and poured a handful and rubbed it.

“It’s dirty… It’s dirty. Wash it off. WASH IT OFF!”

I didn’t realise a customer was waiting until he cleared his throat. I quickly looked up and assisted him, but my hand…it couldn’t stop shaking. After he left I paiged for cover while I ran to the restroom. As soon as I closed the stall door, my tears broke free. My whole body was trembling; I couldn’t stop. I called my husband and I cried. He listened and was able to give me some tranquility. I stayed in the stall for a few more minutes after we hung up. My mind was a haze the rest of the day. I couldn’t function for a while.

I haven’t had a serious breakdown after that incident. The Trauma Group I attended helped me in a way I cannot put into words. I was able to get back on my feet and breathe again. I was finding myself while accepting my symptoms.

Today, was unexpected though.

My sister in law is due in a few weeks, so when I was informed that she was having contractions I rushed to her house since I was going to be her driver. My daughter was in school, so the plan was that my father in law would pick her up and bring her to my sister in law’s house. I was aware of this since we have been planning back and forth for weeks now and I was okay with it, but as soon as the time was nearing for her bus arrival my anxiety escalated.

As I stated in my previous blogs, I was sexually harassed by my grandfather, so it took me a while to become accustomed to my father in law’s presence around me and especially around my daughter.

I kept exchanging glances between the clock and the door, memories of my grandfather and uncles abuse roamed my head like hungry beasts. I was uneasy.

You should have picked her up?

What kind of mother are you?

Why did you let you guard down?

I wanted her by my side. I was anxious. 3:51 p.m. and I heard the bell ring. I could see her beautiful face peeking from the side window. I quickly walked to the door and picked her up and sat on the couch with her. I looked at her and she smiled at me. “Are you okay sweetie?” I asked her, not letting her go.
“Yes mami!” She let herself loose and went to play with her cousins. I was still uneasy. I kept asking her if she was okay and she gave me the same response. We went outside to play and I whispered, “Did your grandfather touch you anywhere?” The innocence behind her confused look broke me into pieces. I smiled at her and told her to go and play. I couldn’t enjoy the beautiful, sunny day or the pure happy state that my children were in.

What is wrong with you?

My thoughts were running free and I stood there and watched them tear me apart with its darkness. I couldn’t handle being there anymore. I wanted to take my kids and leave that house, so I did. As soon as I got into the car, I started to feel some ease.

“I got away.”

When we arrived home, my daughter and I bathed together and I asked her one last time, “Did grandpa touch you?” I waited. “No mami. We were singing songs and that’s it.” I smiled and kissed the top of her head, “Okay mama.”

Now, I am here. In this space. In this room. On this bed and my thoughts are still running free. I feel powerless. I feel useless. I feel disappointed in myself. The list of negative thoughts is a perpetual zone and I am stuck in it.

Today was a bad day.

A Better Gloomy Day

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A distant mind.

A distraction I am

trying to find.

Cloudy day covered in mist.

Vibrant colors

Songs of birds

Not today. Today I resist.

Everything is gray

the colors, the air, the mist, the songs

synchronized in a ritualistic dance.

My eyes looked away.

My heart remained cold

My darlings laughed and smiled, but

My happiness could not unfold.

Guilt manifested within me.

Why am I feeling this on such a beautiful day?

A voice echoed in my head

“You are okay. This is just another gloomy day…”

Time to Move Forward

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March is a beautiful month; It is a time of awakening; colors begin to slowly

reveal themselves, flowers begin to bloom, our surroundings wake up from a well

deserved slumber. For me, there is only one day that brings me misery and

despair, March 17th; my father’s birthday.

As I have stated in a previous post, my parents and I share a similar birthday

month; we are about 2 weeks or so apart. I use to love the idea that we had this

one thing in common, but my father quickly poisoned my love with his perverse

ways.

Now, every year on his birthday, I feel…hhmm, how do I feel?

I used to feel angry or sad; I made a promise to myself that on the day of his

birthday, I would restrain from committing any form of celebration or happiness,

because if I did then in some way I would be celebrating him and he will be the

winner; a monster like that does not deserve an ounce of happiness after

all the darkness he spread, not only in my life, but everyone he touched.

“Now…I feel numb.” I told my husband as the hot trickles of water hit my

my body as I bathed.

My emotions have changed. For some odd reason, I do not feel anger or sadness.

I feel as though my emotional state has washed away any emotion linked to that

day, yet I tell myself, “Tomorrow I will do nothing.” My emotions are guiding me

to a direction of, I believe, positivity, but my mind is pulling me back.

Why do I have to prohibit myself from treating a day like a normal day. A

day like any other. If I am caging my own happiness, then isn’t he

winning?

Something New

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I’m not much of a self loving person. I have always struggled with personal self esteem. My experience taught me that my body was just a toy, disgusting, disposable, used, and stained; so that is how I guided myself through school, marriage, and being a human. I started this self practice that I would compliment myself everyday, even if the words that came out of my mouth were filled with deception. I thought by doing so, I would believe it…eventually.

Recently, I found a balance within myself. I’ve noticed that I haven’t had any negative thoughts. I willingly keep myself busy to prevent myself from being devoured from my darker alter persona, but what stood out to me the most was that a couple days ago I was looking at my reflection and realised my beauty. I told myself,”You are…beautiful.” I give myself a timid smile as if I am complimenting a stranger…well, not even a stranger; I think my compliment towards he or she would be without hesitation and straightforward.

After this frightful realisation, I decided to share my thoughts with my husband. While looking at my reflection on the bathroom mirror, completely naked, I said,”My boobs look great. I’m starting to like them. I feel beautiful. Yeah…” My gaze remained as is. I wanted to look at him, so I just slightly turned my head and he looked and me and smiled, “You are beautiful. I was waiting for you to finally realise it.”

I could feel my chest tighten. I remained silent, but I couldn’t help but smile.

So this is what if feels like…to love yourself.

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A Nightmare… A breakdown (Trigger Warning)

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It has been so long since nightmares used to scare me to the point of sleep deprivation and tears. During my teen years, sleep was something I never prioritized. Every time I closed my eyes, images of my abuse and perpetrators haunted me. If I was lucky, I could at least get a complete three hours of sleep before an anxious feeling woke me up. The sleep deprivation lasted until I met my husband. That first night was the first time I was able to sleep in tranquility. I never thought I would have nightmare like that again.

Two weeks ago, on Saturday night, I woke up at 2:48 am gasping for air and shedding tears. I was holding my breath.

Was I trying to unconsciously kill myself?

My body was shaking entirely and my clothes were soaked in sweat. The images were entering one by one. I looked to my side and saw my husband and kids sleeping. I stayed quiet. I did not want them to see me in such a state when I couldn’t even understand why my body reacted the way it did. I was scared. For the first time in a long time, I was truly scared. I lay back down and stared at the ceiling while my mind replayed the scenes back to me.

**

I had just clocked out and started to walk home. It was past sunset, so I was nearly jogging to get home as quickly as I could. A white truck approached from behind me, coming to a halt next to me. As I looked back to see who the mysterious figure was, I realised it was one of our regular client. He stepped out and greeted me with a smile. We conversed for about a minute until he offered me a ride home. A few seconds passed until I agreed. I didn’t think much of since he came to my work place nearly every day and was well known by everyone. He drove for a few minutes until I signaled my stop. He ignored me.

Did he not see me?

I tapped his shoulder and told him that he had missed my stop. Instead, he glared at me and yelled, “Shut the fuck up! Don’t you understand that I am not taking you home.” He placed his focus back on the lane. I could feel the fear consuming every inch of body; I couldn’t move or respond, so I stayed quiet. It wasn’t too long when we arrived to his town house. I quickly un buckled my seatbelt and tried to run free, but he grabbed a hold of my hair and pulled me back. Tears ran down as I pleaded for my freedom. He pushed aside my pleads and took me inside his house. The inside was filled with mountains of trash, clothes, food, sex toys, mannequins, and furniture. The appearance of his house did not resemble the character I thought I knew. With each push, he guided me to his living room and ordered me to remove my clothes. I tried to escape, but was unsuccessful once again. He beat me until I gave in.

As I lay on my bed, staring at my ceiling the tears were rushing down. I couldn’t find an end to this horrific story. I was terrified.

The whole night, he beat me and raped me numerous times until sunrise. He threw my clothes to me and said, “Get out. I’m done with you. GET OUT.” I did what I was told.

After that, the images of the nightmare were vivid.

I wandered the streets naked and aimlessly until my husband found me.

I can’t remember much of what happened after that. I only remember how it ended.

I ran away from my husband. The thought of having him see me in such a state was unbearable, so I ran away.

I couldn’t go to sleep. By the time I realised how much time has passed, my kids were asking for breakfast and my husband was washing his face. I was numb. I didn’t know what to make out of what just happened to me. I was having difficulty controlling the fear that was trying to pushing itself out. After a few hours, I decided to tell my husband. He was very comforting. He didn’t say much, but he said the right things, yet, I felt anxious and scared. That Saturday went by so fast and I wasn’t able to enjoy it to the fullest. That night when my husband decided to go to sleep at 10:00pm, I stayed in the living room and distracted myself with anything: food, Netflix, reading, and YouTube. I didn’t want to go to sleep. When I knew the yawning was becoming unbearable around 1:30 am I knew that I had to at least try to get some sleep. I quadrupled check that everything was secure and locked before heading to my room. Before I crawled into my sheets I doubled checked that my kids and husband were okay. I even got to the point where I checked if they were breathing. Even after crawling into my sheets, I couldn’t close my eyes. I stared at my ceiling, while glimpses of images unwillingly haunted my every thought. My legs were cramping, my body was shaking, I was sweating, and a tight-like feeling overwhelmed my chest making it hard to breathe; I was afraid. The emotions that I felt when I was younger and the memories of my abuse flooded my mind. I was drowning. I cried, uncontrollably. I woke up my husband and told him, “I’m scared. I’m scared…” He didn’t question my behavior. He grabbed a hold of me and held me tight and reassured me, “I’m here to protect you. Relax.” Thanks to his care and love I was able to get some sleep that night.

**

That nightmare brought back so many unwanted feelings and memories all at once that it shredded me. I felt like I was that same eight year old girl who was abused all those years. The fear, the guilt, the disgust, the betrayal, the ignorance…everything became alive again. I was broken again.

To tell you the truth, I felt like shit days before, the day of, and the days after that nightmare. I felt like shit and I still do. I am mad because I allowed myself to be swallowed by my negative thoughts. I am scared because of how I reacted. I haven’t had a breakdown like that in a while and it’s upsetting. Due to that experience, some old habits have successfully broken through the cage while other are still trying to find another escape.

I know things will get better, but I have to constantly remind myself that I will be okay, so I can continue my day without falling into my abyss.

The Unknown

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When I was around 8 years old, my mother told me of a spooky story from her country called La Carreta Loca (The crazy wagon). My siblings and I crowded around her, our ears ready to listen and our blankets pulled to the tip of our nose like a shield. 

The story tells of a crazy wagon that haunted a road near my father’s house. Every night at midnight a wagon perpetually rounds the same road. People in my mother’s small village said that any person who walked the same road as the wagon at midnight, would go mad. One glance, one sound, and your being will transport into a never ending, painful delusion followed by physical illness. My father claimed to be a victim of such horror. 

As we cuddled next to my mother, my mother smiled as if enjoying our fear. She continued with her story:

My father came back from and eventful, drunken night at his friends house. It was close to midnight and he decided to walk back to his house, even after his friends insisted on a sleep over. He walked the road, stumbling here and there. When the arrows hit 12, the wagon began its journey. My father came to a stanstill when he heard the crunch of wheels on gravel. He looked back, but the mysterious fog did not allow any image intake. He quickened his pace. The graveling sound became louder. The fog begun to disappear. He dare not look back.  He continued his usual pace. The rumbling sound synced with his footsteps. Step. Step. Step Step. He glanced to the side and saw the wagon. He stumbled down with fear and the wagon came to a halt. There was nothing pulling it; no animal or human. He described the wagon to be antique, rusted, and covered in debris and webs. After seconds of silence, the wagon continued the path. My father did not remember anything after that. His mother claimed that when he arrived home: his body fell into a deep fever, he mumbled his words, sweat drenched his clothes, and his eyes bulged and red. His mother layed him down on the bed and tried to calm him, but it was futile. My father dwelled in an unreachable dimension. His mother said he was on the verge of death. After a long night of ritualistic cleansing, his fever subsided and his cognitive responses reached a normal state. The next morning he awoke, bewildered and with no memory of his bewitchment.

My mother said that my father never walked that same road at night again. He was a changed man; he was never the same. 

 As my mother concluded the story, the sound of the wheels crunching the gravel haunted my head

  • What if the wagon is a weird alien?
  • Why didn’t the wagon choose a different road?
  • Is the wagon trapped?
  • Does it like being there? Alone?

 During that time in my childhood I didn’t think much of the story, but I have to admit that it did scare the shit out of me. Out of all the spooky stories my mother told us, this one stood out the most. Now, as I think back, I think the reason it stood out was because I found similiarities between the wagon and the men who abused me. 

Like the wagon…

  • They harmed others with reasons unknown.
  •  They chose a path and never steered away from it. 
  • A predators’ mind is puzzling. 
  • Solitude was their advantage. 

 Throughout the story, my mother kept repeating

The wagon without a rider

Is the reason behind the wagon’s insanity void? If it had its rider, would it still have chosen the same path?

Did my abusers choose a path because they lacked something in their life? 

The feeling of void is powerful. It drives humans to a depth of desperation, but does that justify a predator’s actions?

NO, IT DOES NOT.

Happiness- To be or not to be?

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#positive #feelingsad

 Everyday I wake up and take in the scenery sorrounding me. Everyday I wake up and whisper to myself, “You’re okay.” Some days are better than other which means that some days I am able to believe that phrase a bit more than others. 
  I am a mother. I am a wife. I am blessed and lucky as most people phrase it, yet why do I feel guilty?

 I am suppose to be happy- and I am, don’t get me wrong, but everyday I, somehow, convince myself that I have to be happy because I have all of these beautiful people around me. I have never ending love, yet, I feel guilty. 

Why?

Because…

I feel like I don’t deserve it. 

I feel like I am not capable of loving someone to its fullest. 

I am forever damaged.

Things will never get better. 

They deserve more. 

I should not be happy. 

 Hence, begins a loop of outnumbered negative thoughts with a purpose of pulling me in and keeping me there. 

Darkness…

  I’ve learned that it all begins and ends with a phrase. A positive phrase. 

Choose any positive phrase you like or love and stick with it. Let that phrase be the guidance to many more to come. 

My phrase: You’re okay.

In time, the unanswered question will finally reach an answer:

To be.

Of course, my answer is yet to become permanent, but with each passing day I believe it more than the day before. 

My Birthday

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Today is my 23rd birthday. Twenty three years have passed and I still have to whisper to myself, “You are worth it.”

When I was a child I used to bounce in excitement when March arrived. My mother’s birthday is March 2nd, my father’s is the 17th and mine is the 31st.I used to think that I was special. We had this one thing thay connected us forever. Funny, isn’t it?

With each year, that special feeling became a burden. My father’s abuse and my mother’s ignorance washed away everything. Every year after that, my birthday became a question.

Why was I born?

My birthday was a burden, a blasphomey, a mistake. I belittled my self worth and purpose. How could I think highly of myself if I had convinced myself that I was nothing?

Time became my safe haven. 

Time is still my safe haven. 

I am now 23 years old and I am sorrounded by infinite love, yet, I still woke up and uttered the silent words, “You are worth it.”

Thus, I bathed, dressed myself, and drove to a nearby Starbucks. I ordered a Tall Green Tea Latte and guided myself to the nearest seat in the patio. 

I am sitting down, listening to Promise by Ben Howard and drinking my Green Tea while trying to read my book, but the urge to share my thoughts has won. 

The weather is one of a kind. The sun is shinning bright and the heat is…warm. The wind is constantly blowing towards my direction as if it is telling me, “Let me help you breath.” 

You are worth it. 

It is not much, but it is my repeated beginning. This is part of my healing process.