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One of my very earliest memories. In my tiny room of a single wide trailer in upstate New York. I am 3 or 4 years old. I don’t know what I did wrong, but my father has sent my mother to beat me for it. She whispers to me, makes a pact. She will only pretend but I have to cry loudly. He needs to hear my pain to be appeased. I am so grateful. This is the only time she defended me like this. I grew older, too old a child to deserve protection.

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Give the choice between fight or flight as a child, I chose fawn. I was a small forest creature with ears flattened back, pressing myself to the earth to be as small a target as possible. Glass flew past overhead and smashed splinters around me. My father’s rage always barely contained under his skin. His triggers were impossible to predict, weather each storm until it passed. In the wake of his anger, the silence was a ringing in my ears. The only sound my mother’s muffled sob behind a closed door (she is crumpled on the floor between the bed and the wall and quickly pretends she’s fine when I walk in. Wipes her tears and paints on a smile. We are all fine. Everything is fine). He returns contrite, apologizes, and every time I am expected to say “it’s okay, I forgive you, I love you.” I do it every time. I don’t even think twice about it.

Now I know I have high pattern recognition, which is why despite missing social cues I can understand people’s motivations and behaviors so well that it makes them uncomfortable. It’s data, it’s science. Even then, I knew my father’s tantrums stemmed from some kind of pain. I spent my entire life trying to soothe him so that I could be safe, and he fed off of it.

I’m sorry the pain you caused me hurts you so much. Let me bandage your wounds - the ones from swinging your anger at us. I have no needs. We have no pain. You are the only perpetrator, and somehow also the only victim. Make sure the mask never slips. Keep quiet, stay sweet, never ever talk about what happened. If you talk about it, you haven’t forgiven it, and that makes you the one who is wrong. Forgive a thousand times so that he can do it a thousand more. There must be a good reason for this ache in my chest, the way my bones crumble with loneliness. He’s a good person. I must just be hard to love.

From my earliest memories I have always known there is something deeply wrong with me, some fatal flaw I cannot see that makes me completely unloveable. Why else would they tell me I deserve hell at 4 years old?

If I tell him I love him maybe. If I assure him he’s a good father maybe. If I say it enough times, squeeze my eyes shut.

It was many years before I realized it was abuse. It was many years more before I suddenly saw it wasn’t love.

When people hurt me, my first instinct is always to assure them of my love, assure them of my loyalty. It took me decades to realize they never said it back.

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I need someone to stand next to me with a spray bottle and spray me with water like a cat when I get distracted from my work

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You know a lot of countries rag on the US for being car dependent, but I think they miss the bigger picture. We don’t just use our cars to navigate vast cities that were purposefully designed to make us car dependent. We also use them to cry in a quiet space when we’re being mistreated by our employers and can’t afford therapy.

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2021 -> 2022

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super funny whenever i know i’m about to say something concerning and i can already see the facial expression my therapist will make and hear the Very Specific way she says “hm.” whenever i say something of that nature. in my mind. getting a bad grade in mental health

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"Yellow field" oil, canvas 60x45cm Artist Mishel Alekyan, Armenia

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i would be so hot. If not for the issues & problems

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THE SECRET WORLD OF ARRIETTY ‘借りぐらしのアリエッティ’ dir. Hiromasa Yonebayashi

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just had such a strong “this guy gets it” moment. nearly knocked the wind out of me

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wichita public library has the most delightful short story dispenser at the airport!

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Beautiful library in Munich Bavaria

© Thomas

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British gay people are after my soul