Exhaustive Time Out

I have been struggling with who I am and the things I have done to others. I can say, "Well, it was the alcohol and the drugs."

That would be a lie, and it is uncomfortable to sit with the realization that it is who I am capable of being sober or not. I am me and I am bits and pieces of those who have harmed me. I've gathered my own toxicity along the way.

When I was a little girl, I would put myself in time out when I felt I had done something wrong. I'd be way ahead of the adults in my life, maybe as means of survival or avoidance of the wrath that would surely rain down on me. I'd head to my time out chair, my bedroom, or the closet. I'd punish myself.

Is that what I'm doing now? Have I put myself in time out for being with monsters and being a monster myself? When can I come out?

Most days I don't want to return to society, but then I have these moments of heavy loneliness. My therapist has been trying to teach me about intuition and trusting myself, while also stating that I have a negative outlook on others. Who is left to trust when those who were supposed to protect you instead harmed you? Where can I turn when those I have loved and been completely devoted to, have manipulated that love and devotion?

That struggle has entered into my recovery. There is a correlation between substance abuse and Narcissism/Sociopathic tendencies. There are manipulators, users, and predators in the room. They've replaced alcohol and drugs with people. They appreciate the hierarchy (which we are gaslit about the existence of). They find a usefulness in a system put in place by white men for white men. It is in the language of everything we are supposed to read and devote ourselves too. For obvious reasons, I withhold that devotion. I've been there before, many times.

I wish there were a different way to find healing within recovery. A way that doesn't involve placing myself back in the very cage that causes harm.

As I come closer to reaching one year without alcohol, I can honestly say coming back from my relapse has been hard the entire way. I wish I had never picked up that drink in June of 2022. This time around I am unwinding myself from programming that began the moment I took my first cry in this world. It has involved a lot of pain, anger, frustration, and sitting in the discomfort -no matter what-.

So yes, I suppose I am in a self-enforced time out, because not only do I not trust others, but I also do not trust myself.

Get Out of Me

I signed the invisible contract of his
In small writing it read that my hair was too wild.
He hated it frizzy.
Flannels were meant for donation and not for wearing.
I wasn't in the world to make friends.
I wasn't funny anyway.
My laugh must be quiet or not at all.
I give people headaches.
My taste in music must not be shared.
I sing the same 5 songs, oh come what may?
My writing wasn't real so that must be halted immediately.
I swallowed my words until they exploded within me.
I was to be grateful he chose me.
I couldn't show I questioned him choosing me.
I wasn't like the other ones.
Was I pretty enough, or just enough mystery?
I would look forward to saying yes.
No must mean yes.
My voice became silence with no remedy.
I must give up my happy thoughts;
Turn them all into a future enemy.
I can't feel energy.
I can't move freely.
Repeat the cycle unquestioningly,
Tell my therapist it is me who is not thinking clearly.
Choking meant love,
bruising meant joking and loyalty.
I could be part of the family, but not be the family.
I was an odd duck in a room full of heavy dishonesty.
The monster was allowed to devour me.
I must say thank you and sit on the couch.
Accepting my crazy identity.

Tory Talbot Hall

We were sitting outside of your mom's back door drinking beer. You had somehow convinced me that you'd finally accepted we would "just be friends" so I came over to hang out. It had been a bit since I had pulled away. I remember laughing and joking, and me asking you where your other friends were. You had said you'd be having some friends over, yet I was still the only one there.

You texted some people and they started showing up not very long after. Were they ever actually coming? When did they leave? How did you get me into your room? A room you normally shared with your little brother.

I'm still confused about what I drank and how I ended up so completely lost on time and location of my body. Was it the beer? How many did I have? I don't remember having that many. Did you convince me to take a shot? Or was that another night? How did you get me into your room? Your little brother was at your dad's house that night.

How long did it take for you to undo my pants and start touching me? Was it before or after you began touching yourself? How long had you been touching me before I woke up? Did you expect that? Did you think I'd find the strength to stand then stumble my way down your hall?

The note on my car, when I was home. The roses on my car, when I was at work. Did you watch me? Plotting until you could make me yours.

Why were you so worried about me waking your mom up? Would she have been so easily able to explain this away if she had seen me? Does she still explain you away?

You tried to cry. Were you aiming to confuse me further? Making me think you cared about me, and that I had it all wrong? You were the victim after all; things with me were different and you just wished I could see that. Why can't the girls you love ever see that? Those things you would say about her too. Did you rape her? How many times have you done this since?

The Pelican

every note we scream his name
each times it's differently
a spoken spell of who he'd be
a quarter turn from who we'd see

a character with multiple parts
a tourist through his own self rot
taxi, it's time again
to leave his mess for us to tend

call my friend
call my friend
call my friend again

this time I'm too far gone
I've seen his stance, I've felt her charm
heard him coming home too late
certain then, he found the take

a character with stolen fate
a tourist through his own self hate
taxi, it's time again
to leave his mess for us to mend

he'll wear her clothes and steal her twirl

she'll call a friend
tell the world
we'll scream out
fear has no hold

we see their stance
feel their rot
face these men,
the broken tots

call us then
call us then
always as it should have been
we are friends
shake them out
we're ours again

WORK IN PROGRESS

Da Hui

    He came into the bar on the day I was covering a bartending shift. Normally he was loud and abrasive; he'd chug shots and do blow in the back bathroom. That day though, he was different. He was sad.

He had a book with him (a book I also owned) and he just wanted an adult hot chocolate with whip cream; lots of whip cream. I felt badly for him. That was the day things really started to change. The disgust and annoyance I had for him turned into empathy and friendship. I thought back to how he had told me about his childhood. He said his dad had hit him in the face with a hammer and his teeth never looked the same. We were drunk. I felt awful; and that was the point in which my hate for him had turned into that very disgust and annoyance which was dissipating. He picked me. Then he worked on me. He is a Sociopath.

Some of us he chose for sex and drugs. Others for a roof over his head. He loved to be seen with hot girls, so status was a known go-to. Then there were those of us that he chose because of who we represented to him. The drugs, alcohol, and attraction were there too, but he sucked our life-force from us. Of those womxn some of us were told he would kill us. Some were drugged and boozed up beyond cognition.  Some of us almost died. All of us were assaulted.

It took me until far too recently to be able to say, "He raped me." I fell in love with a monster. That's the healing that I can't get through.

I can work through the choking, the twisting of my arms behind my back, the fear of being stabbed; what I can't work through is how in the fuck I went from hating this person to losing my consent, my health, my sanity, and my self-worth. How did I fall in love with this man?

I got off work that day, and I started to sit with him more and more. He told me he was pretty sure his girlfriend was cheating on him. He loved her so much and he just wanted her to be happy. This always happened to him. He was always cheated on. And I started to trust her less and less.

Another thing I can't seem to move on from. She had tried to warn me, but I didn't understand how good he was at lying. I didn't think I would ever date him. I was dumb before I ever loved him.

I'm sure my therapist wouldn't like me writing that, but it's the only thing I can think.

I'm a fucking idiot. It's the thought that always comes back no matter how much time passes. Especially when I'm bombarded with memories, and I see them as they really were and not how he wanted them to be seen.

I Write

Too much coffee

Too much weed

Whatever can keep me from thinking of you

Coming to the end of the sugar from our home

Nights and days, they're all the same

No longer on that bench,

just another couch

Someone pushed my shoulders up the other night

Asked me what I was reaching for

So I'm going to write something

something about you

maybe one day it will be a song

my stage and lights up bright

for you

thank you

thank you

thank you

allowed to be free is now my choice to see

all of that anarchy

gave me glory

love got me sober enough

gave me a story

got me back, to here and there

back to you again

I rip up the pictures, walk to the next home

thank you

thank you

thank you

allowed to be free is now my choice to see

you never would have loved her

you never loved me

free, free, free

love got me sober

never about you

it was me

thank you

thank you

thank you

no need for your permission

now my choice to see

that I was always free

He taught me that it was me.

Not everything is about me.

My roommate has been off these last few days, and I've been in panic. Has my leaving of rinsed dishes in the kitchen sink pissed her off. I've been super depressed, and I communicated that to her. We tried to communicate everything we could before moving in together. Our boundaries and needs. Some shit to expect. I fucked up. I fucked up. She is pissed at me. She hates me. I fucking suck. My cat has been annoying too! I spiraled.

So today I talked to her. I asked her if there was anything she needed to talk about. I asked if she was upset with me. She said she's going through shit. I know she has anxiety and suffers with depression. I know she lost a friend to suicide right around this time of year. I know she is seeing family for the holidays. I know she is discovering herself right now. She has her own shit. 

I don't know why I think it's about me. Everything in my life, when someone is upset: It's because of me. Am I self-centered? Is that why I blog? Do I write because I love to write or because I want to feel tall? Am I a Narcissist? Am I a Narcissist who is attracted to Narcissists? Who did my dad make me? Who have I let myself become?

Am I bad like him?

I'm o-fucking-kay.

    I have been having issues with my car. I have cried because it was the shit icing on a shit cake. I have felt disappointed in my luck. I have chain smoked about it. What I haven't been though, is furious. I haven't been alone. And what a fucking difference that has made. See, I believed that I was a shitty girlfriend because I handled stressful situations badly. Yet, all of those situations were me doing it alone. I had to beg for any effort shown from my ex. Labor on top of labor; that sums up my time with him. So yes, I yelled and screamed and threw things. I was taking care of me, I was taking care of us, I was taking care of our home, I made sure the bills were paid on time, I took the car to the mechanic, I made sure the parts we needed were purchased, I took care of keeping our cupboards filled, and I was taking care of him; all while he treated me like shit. I didn't know he was treating me like shit at first, then I knew but shoved it down because I loved him and I just knew he was a good person deep down. Then I knew he wouldn't change but I couldn't leave, every time I tried it felt like I had cut out a piece of myself. It was worse than withdrawal from cocaine and booze. I was addicted to him, and he had made sure of that early on. 

Sometimes I wonder if his "wingwoman" isn't also an awful human being. Did she help him plan it? She gave me Molly and encouraged me to text him after a break-up to a dirtbag. She left us alone even though she usually hung out late. She gave us comfy clothes and said we could listen to music. Music. I had always thought we had bonded over music. We had sung karaoke together when we were co-workers. I thought he loved the same bands as me. So imagine my surprise when all of a sudden, he didn't love karaoke and never wanted to do it. And he stopped listening to music with me. He started shit talking what I listened to. I started not listening to music as much because we were always together and I didn't want to hear him say mean things and honestly, I was scared to let him know what I liked because he would make me feel stupid about it. I stopped writing because he said poetry wasn't talent and I never showed him what I wrote from before I stopped writing. So imagine my fucking surprise when a survivor of his wrath informed me that one of the things, he told her was that he wrote and loved writing. I didn't see him write a damn thing for the entirety of knowing him. Even cards he gave me were quotes from movies or TV shows I loved. Looking back, I know it was all filthy lies. Everything he does is a lie. He has played so many characters that I don't even know if he knows who Zackary (Zachary) Andrew Couch is.

What a sad existence that must be.

I however had car issues today. I said to my supervisor "It's gonna be okay. I'll figure it out tomorrow." It had been a long, hectic night at work and still I felt acceptance that I couldn't do a damn thing about it. Even now I feel a sort of calm. I'm poor, depressed, anxious, and struggling with my sobriety. Yet I am still doing better than I ever was following him around.

It’s going to be okay.

Charlie St. Cloud (10/23/2022)

 I needed to cry. I keep having these blocks. Like I get stuck. I can't proceed forward, and I can't necessarily look back. I fixate on one moment, shut down, don't feel anything and do not move forward. I don't want to feel and then I detonate. I relapse. I cry, but I don't fully feel it. It's survivable. It's a pain I am familiar with. Then I start again, trying to take on more pain this next time around. How many relapses do I have left in me? I cannot answer that. I just know I am getting closer to the edge. I'm growing familiar with the idea of my death. I roll it around and ask a new question each time. Getting the same answer: I don't want to go on anymore.

Then I get these glimpses of moments. Moments that I am smiling about. I should feel completely happy. Something isn't there. I am prepared to watch it fall. Nothing real feels that swell. Anytime I've let myself go; I've been wrong. Happiness isn't a guarantee. It's an option that I know nothing about.

So they used drugs. They controlled my emotions and latched onto my traumas. They made me their mommy, their daughter, their maid, the step-mother to their children, the wallet, the pocket pussy, the moldable plaything, and their "best friend". They wanted to play on the deepest most dangerous emotion: devotion. An emotion I've come to see as love, just like my daddy trained me.


DAMN. I found that tonight and that is rough to read. Sometimes we forget these moments. That's why my therapist told me to write when she found out I'd stopped. She told me to start writing again and when I started writing again, I finally got out. Our thoughts are poison. Our trauma will kill us if we don't get it out. And if we don't talk to anyone then abusers will abuse us for as long as they can. We get killed or we fade away until we become hollow. We can even end our own lives due to the pain forced upon us by men.

And I found this months ago. So the colder months have always been harder. I am so glad I have things to go back over. When I can finally afford therapy again this is going to be really important. I am seeing patterns in myself. I am hoping this will help me better understand what leads me to relapse and the suicidal ideation.

October 13th, 2019-October 13th, 2022

    The day before I prepared to leave from California, I told my therapist that I was fucking scared. I told her I was scared to come back here. I was scared I was going to fuck up. I told her my biggest fear was that I would relapse. I told her I couldn't relapse because of Zackary. He wasn't worth all of that time I'd gathered. She told me that I could do it. She said she believed in me. She said a relapse would never mean she didn't believe I could do it.

I didn't relapse because of Zackary. No, it was after getting punched in the face while protecting a child, after losing my best friend, and after finding out my "dad" had died and that my mother had found him in their closet. Then going to a funeral for a person I never got the chance to talk to about the impact he had on my life. I lost my path to forgiveness. Not for him, but for myself. Then after realizing that still, to this day, nobody truly cares about what he did to me. I have to forgive my family. It's heavy. It's fucking hard. And yes, Zackary, but he didn't cause me to relapse. He just gave me a reason to cry once I did.

Today was a really fucking hard day. I should have made it 3 years. Today I wanted to drink. That's how fucking devastating alcoholism+trauma is. It's why I don't know if I'll ever be okay. Too much has happened. Too many people have entered my body without permission. I've been torn from for too long. I wish I could say something helpful to whomever could one day come across this.

I just don't know if there is anything to say.

-D