Sunday, June 17, 2012

Special gifts on father's day

Triggery, gross, disgusting.  Probably shouldn't read it.

I drifted to sleep on the sofa, only to be woken up by the urgent need to vomit.  I sprinted the three steps to the bathroom and barely make it to the toilet.  I emptied my stomach but I still felt queasy, so I sat down and rested my head on the porcelain bowl.  I beat my broken wrist against the bathtub as hard as I could.  After a while, maybe thirty minutes or so, I felt okay enough to crawl back to the couch and try again.  I drifted to sleep again, sweating even though it was freezing in my apartment, and again I wake up and ran to the bathroom, only this time there was nothing left to vomit but stomach acid.  It burned, but I kind of liked it.  It hurt.  I can handle that.  I can't handle the hours of tears and self hatred. 

Each time I gave into exhaustion, my mind raced with pictures and movies.  And the worst part is, not all of the dreams were bad dreams until I woke up.  I dreamed pictures and movies of...  father's day and special father's day gifts.  You see, I know I was a child and I know I was taken advantage of, and I know the brutal rapes were not my fault despite how much I antagonized him until he lost it, but that doesn't change the fact that I was a twisted and perverse little creature.  That doesn't change the fact that I did and offered things to my "fathers."  Things no little girl should want to do.  While most little girls gave their fathers neckties and trinkets made at school, I took little trips to the store "to get some beer and cigarettes" with my "father."  We would park the car or go on a "treasure hunt" or "picnic" in the vast empty desert and tell Maggie we ran into whoever was convenient and lost track of time chatting about "the game."  I made a special secret coupon book for father's day once when I was 11.  It was quite an elaborate little book of paper coupons, complete with hearts, stars, rainbows, and unicorns, and vile things to show him I loved him.  I put a lot of effort into that thing, thinking of everything I knew he'd want, including violent things.  Yep.  Such a sweet innocent little girl.

I was part of things that literally make me sick today.  Sometimes I got special gifts on father's day too.  A sun dress.  Cute undies.  A Skipper and Ken doll.  And I liked that.  At night we'd often all gather in the living room, everyone curled up with with blankets and pillows on the couch or the floor.  I usually chose the floor, laid on my belly with my chin resting in my hands and my feet kicking in the air.  He'd usually start on the couch, but eventually end up on the floor too.  Roaming hands.  All I had to do was move to the couch or go to bed, but I stayed and watched whatever show was on TV.  Yes.  I wanted to watch TV so I let it happen without protest.  My body meant that little to me, I guess.  I'd stay until whatever movie or show we were watching was over, take my blanket and go to bed, knowing he'd come in my room soon.  My stomach ached with anticipation, fear, and self hatred.  And now I know, he brought a camera in the room too.  I wish I didn't know that.  Child or not.  My fault or not.  I am disgusting.  Ruined.  Worthless.  Trash.

Father's day always ended with a shard of glass in my hands and warm liquid dripping from my legs or stomach onto the floor of a rubber ducky tiled bathroom.  And now it starts with dreams, tears, sensations in my body, and little scenes playing inside my head, sometimes appearing to be outside of it too.