Note: Started writing Wednesday, June 9
Mind clouded. Breath staggered.
It's dusk here in Texas. I park my car at the end of my long driveway, and I sit here staring at the length of dirt road that I need to travel to get home. A journey, it seems like. Quite ironic, given my situation. Looking out the window to my left, I see that the grass is tall; yellow and green leaves sway in the wind, and all I want is to get out and touch it. To lay down in it. To feel the sun on my skin and stare at the blue sky above me. But, I can't make my arms move, nor my legs.
Throat sore. Voice hoarse. Ears ringing.
With the volume raised, the window buzzes with the vibrations of the music that surrounds me. It's the same music I've been listening to all day, cycling through the same songs that played this morning as I drove to the summer camp and this afternoon as I ran around to different stores buying supplies for photography club. All day I drove silent, letting the music do its work, until now. Driving home from my counseling session, I felt my pent up rage and sadness bubble up my throat and out through screams, saying nothing in particular but physically expressing an amount of built of frustration for fifteen minutes. Now, I can't even get words to come out of my mouth. Now, I have no energy but to just sit here and stare.
Eyes watering. Hand pulsating.
My eyes well up with tears. Attempting to wipe them away, I notice the back of my hand starts to sting as the oils and salt irritate a scratch on my outer thumb. Though it took forty minutes, I had started to make it with my nail during my counseling session half an hour earlier when Robert mentioned that 80% of women experience some sort of sexual abuse in their lifetime. Though my experiences are unique, I'm not alone, he explained. Is this supposed to make me feel better? I wanted to ask him, but instead, I wondered aloud, "What's the point?" What is the point of attempting to redefine love if my skewed definition is not so skewed, but the norm?
I have taken many protective measures to make sure my daughter doesn't grow up the way I had to grow up. I don't allow strangers near her. No one babysits her other than her grandparents, her father, or her preschool, and even if I decided to start a new relationship, I would never allow a love interest to be alone with my daughter. Hell, I doubt I would even let them meet.
I've taught my daughter to display boundaries in the form of phrases like, "Don't touch me", "I want alone time", "I want quiet time", and "I don't like that". I've helped her use these simple phrases when she's uncomfortable, such as when her grandma wants a goodbye kiss on the cheek and she doesn't want to, or when she's upset and doesn't want her toes poked or counted. Sometimes "This little piggy went to the market" is overwhelming, and it's okay to not want to play sometimes. Adults need to learn that. Adults need to learn boundaries, yet with all of my protective measures to ensure my daughter is never hurt the way that I've been hurt or more, what is the point with such a statistic like that? The percentage of her being hurt sexually in childhood and adulthood is 80 fucking percent? What the fuck? I felt furry hearing that statistic come out of my counselors mouth, and I started scratching and digging my nail into my skin. He then decided to talk about my hyper-sexualization as a symptom of my sexual abuse, likening it to a developed addiction due to chemical reactions of dopamine and norepinephrine developed during my father hitting me out of love and respect and Alejandro cooing at me to slide the end of a hairbrush into me when I was a preteen, insulting me for it and the sounds I made after it was done.
The heat of the evening sun makes my skin shiver and blinds my eyes. Deciding it's time to go home, I put the car in Drive and let it roll at 5 miles per hour, taking my sweet time till I end up at my house. I don't feel prepared to slap the smile on my face to greet my family and my mother-in-law. I don't feel strong enough to force a laugh out. I don't feel energetic enough to finish the day, but I have to because my daughter deserves it.
When I step out of the car, I'm greeted by her laughs and her smiles. What a contagious phenomenon. I smile back. She's in the pool with her grandmother, and she's so big now that she can walk in the shallow on her tippy toes. My goodness...time has flown, and I feel a pang of guilt. I should treasure every moment I have with her because she is growing up so much. In the blink of an eye, she'll be ready to live her own life. This makes me proud and scared. She makes it all better, though, when I cuddle her and she tells me she loves me. God, I live for her and her happiness.
Night time approached me and I couldn't sleep. Tossing and turning, the hours dragged on slowly.
10. 12. 3. 4. 5. 7. Fuck. Late for work.
I had been dreaming about my family: M and I were sitting in the car with my daughter in-between us. Driving behind us, a cop flashed his lights to pull over, but I had an off feeling in my gut. There was something untrustworthy about this cruiser and this cop. For whatever reason, immediately, I thought of human trafficking, and I was scared. When he got to to the window, the officer reached in and pulled my daughter out through the window. M caught her, and it was a game of tug-of-war. M was looking at me like he didn't know what to do, and I shouted at him to pull her in, but he looked at me like a child, confused and scared. I grabbed onto her, and M was just sitting there, lost. I wanted to put the car in Drive. I wanted to tell M to drive away--that I had a good grip on her; drive away! But I was afraid that if I lost my focus trying to give him instructions like my students or putting the car in Drive, then I would lose her forever. The dream ended with both myself and this stranger tugging at her, neither one of us getting her.
I'm tired, emotionally and physically. Tomorrow's Friday, and I'm already begging for a drink after my daughter sleeps to welcome in the weekend.
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