In my early twenties I legally changed my given name to a chosen name I had been going by since I was 13/14. It was an homage, the nickname of my warrior/guardian/protector personality. She’s dead now.
When someone asks me what my name means, what it’s origins are… I understand they’re curious. I understand they just want to know because it sounds different than what they’re used too. I had a very common, practical name before. Also, it killed me. The personality that had that name is a dead, rotting corpse. It’s chest cavity is open full of putrid cat filth, semen oozing from it’s groin.
Being called that name was an insult. It was hollow, empty. The dead don’t have an attachment to names anymore. So we chose a new name, and now that my warrior has passed into the oblivion that is true integration, I carry the homage of her name forever to honor her sacrifice.
My inner child had a birthday a couple days ago. She’s 17 now. That was the age we began taking care of ourselves. The year I lived in a dining room. The older she gets, the more she is forced to remember and take. She and I are remembering things in tandem, terrible, horrible things.
My mother briefly dated a cop during the the time we were living in isolation. I was about 16 by this time, withdrawn from HS by my mother who wanted to keep me close. Forbidden from driving or working. We lived on 23 acres of land, in a house with a well that didn’t work. Often we didn’t have running water, to speak nothing of hot water. The first time I met him, I was wearing loose fitting cotton top and shorts, it was very hot most of the year where we lived. He gripped my hand so tightly that it hurt.
The second time I saw him we had traveled to his home so we could shower and do laundry. He had several dogs that had been obviously abused. My mother told me that when he saw my bras he made some comment and my mother just laughed as she told me. She was flat chested, I am not. He had a mostly bald head, short buzzed blond hair. Blue, maybe green eyes. A paunch. Burly arms and stout legs.
I remember being in a bedroom, his bedroom, with him, numb, performing. It was in the middle of the day. I remember the feeling that my mother knew what was going on.
As my sanity slips away with the PTSD loops and night terrors that plague me since this memory first arrised, I am left with only two options. Either it happened and I survived it and am now trying to process it, or it’s a horrible, fucked up, instance of my imagination creating false memories to torment and plague me with.
Either way, I feel like it can’t win. Why do these things happen to people? Why? Why does so much pain and hurt come from them. Why do people do this to each other? How do people like that live with themselves? Why didn’t I kill myself years ago?
I don’t want it to be real, but the alternative is far worse.