As are people in general. I just don’t understand humans.
I wish I was an actual human, but that is a completely different post.
Fantastic show last weekend. I love my mediaeval life, it is so much more suited to me, less based on socialising, more skills based and more structured. I am a competent woman, and a confident one when in my medieval garb.
I am respected there. I have useful skills, people ask me what to do, or how to do it. I am part of life there, rather than the freak on the edge trying to participate but tolerated not wanted.
It was my birthday last weekend too. Friends made it a very good birthday.
As they say, friends are the family you choose for yourself.
We got back from the show monday night. Our leader had some bad news as we left the site, so a few of us stayed with her to give her hugs/feed her mugs of tea.
Tuesday, my regular appointment with CC, she comments on my ‘glow’, how obviously good it is for me, and I explain why. “You need to do it more often” she says, and I agree.
Tuesday afternoon I find something out. This is where the headfuck truly begins. A few weeks ago I found my mother (to whom I havent spoken in three or four years) on twitter. I obviously did not follow her, but I do look every so often.
Tuesday afternoon I learn that my mother is in hospital. I learnt by luck via the internet. Two weeks before she had tried to kill herself. So she is in the psych ward.
She was in hospital a lot when I was younger. But I wasnt aware of it. I didn’t understand it. All I noticed was that perhaps our weekly time together that week didn’t happen. Our one hour.
She tried to explain it to me when I was 17, when I visited her up north where she had moved to with my siblings. She showed me the poetry she had written on scraps of paper. I read them and kept quiet about the fact that I understood the things she wrote about more than she could imagine.
I’ve sat in the living room when her CPN came round.
Her being ill is normal to me. I am used to it.
But before I didn’t quite understand.
And before it wasnt my fault.
I’m a bad daughter. I don’t have the cope to talk to her.
And before my (not so) little half sisters didn’t have to deal with it. They think I hate them because I don’t have the cope to talk to them.
And before I had people around I could talk about it to had I wanted to.
Tuesday evening a friends gives me a present from her housemate. A chap who is lovely and like me. A chap who didn’t speak for eight months, who spoke his first word in eight months to me, but that is an irrelevance to this post.
It was a beautiful present full of my favourite animal and favourite cider. And a little hand folded card. With words on it.
“In my dreams is where you’ll be, through my head you’re running free, longing for the day you can finally see just how much you mean to me, x”
Ack. I’m bad with people finding me attractive. I’m scared they will want to touch me. More than one person has requested to be intimate with me, and ewww. But it’s not just that. I don’t like strangers touching me, friends, people I know I can hug continuously. Strangers go and kiss my ears, wtf? *shudders*
Wednesday morning when the post arrives, the usual bumf, and what appears to be a card, I don’t quite recognise the handwriting. It appears to be a mix of two hands. Addressed to my full name, nobody has called me by my full name for at least three years, I open it with trepidation. A pink, flowery “To a special daughter” card. From my mother. Full of soppy sentences we havent used in a decade. She asked my dad to forward it to me.
Wow, he can forward stuff just fine, hasn’t lost my address again. Why then won’t he forward the stuff I asked him to.
It’s because I’m a bad daughter
And everything is working to remind me what a bad daughter I am.
What a bitch I am.
Where I came from.
I can’t escape the monster.
All over the local newspaper. A man from this town, dead in my old river. And many more. Stories about suicide ans attempted suicide. The film I watched with friends, based on siege at my old local castle. Sewing and the chap who’s kit we were sorting keeps talking about his ex girlfriends time in the psych ward.
Last weeks, and this weeks appointments with CC cancelled because she’s had a bereavement.
I killed them, as did I kill our knight’s relative. And as I made my mother attempt suicide. Locked in hospital, all my fault.
I really need to talk to someone, but I’ve not seen CC because of her bereavement. I tried to talk to someone at AG, only I find it impossible to ask to talk. To many years being told to squish it all down. Being told I don’t deserve to talk or be listened to.
The one person I could talk to who I know would understand about my mother, well I killed her father too.
Need to stop killing people.
Going to a show this weekend.
If I wasn’t doing so, I don’t know what would happen.
Re-enactment has saved my life so many times. I think it is doing it again.