Tub Deep. Mutlifaceted Shit.

Sometimes purging your mind of harmful events is the only way you can judge whether you're fully healed or ready to heal... Or at least have come to a point where you feel ready to begin the process. I'm not sure where I'm at... I just know I've reached a pivotal step - of something. I revealed to a friend, I hope - something I had previously not wrote on or told to anyone,  for me it was an admittance my fathers words still had heavy impact on me as as an adult. It was a defeat in my mind - a disclosure about how broken I truly was at that point in my life, very well may still be, and always have been. Still I go over why events have happened to me - and how I responded. I'm tedious and brutal - an abuser of self. I'm in constant doubt as to knowledge and what I perceive as being the right choice/conclusion.

The revelation ...

Not only did my father make me take bleach baths as a child (which I have spoke on) while telling me how dirty I was for being a girl, for my mother being a whore ...

I did it to myself as an adult.

These occurred during the time I was having sexual relations with a person for whatever reasons. I reached points so low of self esteem; shame for being weak and what I perceived as being filthy, that I went home, and bathed in bleach, then cried. I couldn't wash the filth from me. It wasn't morality or guilt over any other thing than self. I was so racked with self hate and contempt that I became the little girl again and tried to wash away what I felt was filth, my filth. The filth that "daddy" always told I'd be - a whore. Women were dirty, and I had acted a dirty woman. I've been very much ashamed, or shamed of my sexuality my whole life. I had sporadic sexual interest - but mostly "asexual." I tend to pick partners in which sex will not be a focus within the relationship. Times when I've had sexual interest, it's been devastating to my sense of self esteem ... I drank and diluted my senses into oblivion and did things that were totally opposite of me - the mirrors reflection was much more desirable than the woman the image came from. This had been a truth even in my adolescence and something my therapist had spoken to me on- always with me adamant that I could fix myself. I survived many things, and didn't need anyone to fix me - I could do this alone.

The baths told me different. For the longest time I wouldn't even acknowledge what I did those nights- those moments when I was her again.  

These memories trickle to the surface often. Too often. 

denied

 At first I was amused that Moore Sr. (my father) was so potent, and being obviously successful with woman beating magnetism he instantly impregnated the easily infatuated. I imagine how manly, and virile they found him to be whilst never holding a job; thinking women were to be subservient to him and his interesting way of thinking himself a higher life form. He was a god unto himself - he worshiped daily at the temple known as a "drug dealing, woman and child trafficking piece of shit"...This temple name has some fucking punch to it, eh? He mesmerized my known siblings - despite the fact his legacy of dysfunction is readily viewable in his criminal, and drug using children, including their mental health issues. A criminality and abuse that has trickled even into his grandchildren. Nothing deserves glamorization as much as man who made a living off drugs, public assistance and pimping... His redeeming quality was that he kindly allowed the addicts he created to sell their genitals under his management. A real gents' gent... Something you prop up as a model of manhood, but only for the manliest of men. Being forgiven his transgressions against us, and humanity in general, his weak minded offspring made him into a harmless old man. One I needed to forgive or stop lying on - dependent on which sibling you talk to.

Recently they really angered that violent cunty cunt within me...  They gave him more dignity on his deathbed than they did our mother - the woman he beat and had raped on the floor of a basement. The woman he pistol whipped - forever giving her nose that slant look. The same mother who walked in rain, sleet or snow to get to a job where she was treated as third class. The woman who repeatedly throughout our lives had taken us in, paid our bills, bought our children diapers and food. She didn't  get 1/4 the respect that worthless husk of nothing got. She was never even given the respect of believing what he did to her. This was evident by her intellectually stunted son - with the capacity of a 5 year old, who was never able to accept her fear of him. He clung to the idea they'd be together again, because it was love. Destined. Never-mind the fact she pissed on herself at times when he pulled up in their yard. She was too ashamed to tell them that, she told me... It fueled my hate. She never told the rest anything because she knew they were enamored by him. She only had her family really - eventually they all faded away from her too. He has that effect on those he carefully crafted a fake nostalgia with, and those mentally compromised- both of those tethered. Some are so removed from emotion they act like her life was some distant unrelated string of events. Somehow his age and subsequent role as grandfather herofied being a pimp and drug dealer became worthy of forgiveness, and I'm the bitch for not giving him what he always wanted - to have Vicky, our mother, be given less.

Less respect.
Less love.
Less acceptance.
Less loyalty.

In the end he got all that from them - he won through them. I knew that never winning me would hurt him the most. I looked like her ... I represented her in his mind. I didn't give him what he wanted. I told her I wouldn't - I kept my word. Daughters who love their mother do ...

Denied motherfucker. Denied.

Things I accept.

Things I accept.
Passively.
Aggressively.
Sadly.

I will never have sisters or brothers to go grow old with...I will never know what it means to sister whisper or to look into my siblings eyes and feel that connection of,  "here is where I belong."

Not because I don't have any - I have many. There are many of us- the us he created. We're all broken; isolated; fearful; distrusting... Us. The us that can't soften, nor bend ...  Nor reach to one another. That would be weakness. That would be certain emotional ruin. I've breathed that poison most my life, its thickness nearly drowned me. Always pulling me under,  then in ... I barely knew me from her and her from me. Was it me?

The Button.

Truth is - I fucking hated that wooden button. That button was a gash - a bleeding infection that never ceased to ooze its contents onto my innocent hands. No child should ever  have to fucking cope with those wounds... I know this now.  I no longer have the wooden button, I let it go when I let them go.
We were tangled, pitiful... always mourning a childhood we never had. He made everything sick. No one knew - except her, the mother, who was so far from reality at times, I often thought her a dream. A figment of my imagination. Her drunkenness and need for male attention seeped into the kisses she gave me; the songs she sang me.

I loved her still. 
I didn't know the wrong in it all, or know the life long pain it would cause me - cause them, even if their exposure was minimal. He left his scent on us...

Things I accept.
Passively.
Aggressively.
Sadly.

I will never know the feeling of loving a sibling as I love myself.