showing pain behind hir back yur back mi back
May 17: i'm crying now as i write this. there is no one else around and i hate my livejournal. so it had to be put somewhere else constructive. talking to so many people about queer families lately, including a lovely conversation with anais today. but it's all so painful. and i'm still crying about what i just read. still can't think about what to do with that pain i've just been exposed to. i want to say fuck you to this whole censorship thing. i really want instead an agenda about this. this pain that makes me just want to scream and vomit forever - but instead tears and unbearable breathing. this painful heat my body responds with.
wow I thought It would all go away as I wrote. Instead it’s getting worse. Realer. It’s so odd, that image. much worse. the chair the inability to sit down in a chair is the image that keeps coming to my mind. what it means for him for me for his father for that violence he has TO FUCKING LIVE WITH EVERYDAY. and why is it we all don’t live with that pain? why are we all dancing away moving away from reality at every moment of our fucking life. i guess it’s because otherwise we couldn’t live bearing with that suffocation.
here’s Mattilda’a letter and the source of all this pain from nobodypasses.blogspot.com
i remember thinking it was so strange he voice recorded his entries. now that most basic part of it has a background that torments me.
I did this event called the Radar Salon recently, a new series hosted and curated by Michelle Tea where two writers (in this case, me and Bucky Sinister) engage in conversation while Michelle asks questions. At one point, Michelle asked how we were both able to be so vulnerable in our work, and I'm not sure exactly what I answered, except that later she asked what we were looking forward to, and I couldn't think about anything except what I was most fearing: deciding whether to visit my father, who I haven't talked to since I confronted him 11 years ago about sexually abusing me -- he's now dying of cancer. I'd just written him a letter, and at the event I said -- in between sobbing -- that I just wished he could say that he sexually abused me, because it would actually make it easier for me to go on living, and he's going to die and what good will it do him to have not acknowledged anything. I usually don't cry like that -- especially not in public -- and it was an incredible moment of public vulnerability where I actually felt supported, both by Michelle and Bucky -- and the audience. It's so important to reveal the violence, the trauma, and the struggles to survive -- and I'm hopeful that it makes me stronger to do so.
So I've decided to visit my father, even though he will almost surely give me nothing that I ask for, and almost everything about the visit will probably be horrible. But I've decided to visit him, because I can't decide to visit him after he dies, so I might as well do it beforehand.
Here is the letter that I wrote to my father:
October 11, 2006
Dear Dad:
It surprised me, after so many years of wanting all traces of you to disappear from my life, but when I first heard that you had cancer, I started fantasizing about ways that I could save you, maybe by offering health advice that you might not seek out-- acupuncture, meditation, guided imagery. Then I started thinking about all of these mundane things -- like talking about publishers with you, the differences between this one high-end lefty publisher with the gorgeous square books and the other one moving into their territory, plus oh the drama of working inside the whole disastrous publishing machine. Most people aren't that interested in publishers, but it seemed like something you might like to hear about. That's when I realized that, even after 11 years of not talking to you, I still held some hope that maybe you would come to terms with sexually abusing me, that you would finally admit it and then perhaps we could have a mundane conversation about publishers.
There is no question that, as a psychiatrist, you have had access to absolutely any possible way to come to terms with sexually abusing me, more resources for dealing with your abuse than almost anyone in a similar situation. Instead, like most parents (and psychiatrists) who sexually abuse their children, you have chosen to deny it. You even contacted a “false memory syndrome” specialist, someone whose job is to assure abusive parents that their children are confused at best, that their memories can be dismissed and discarded, that it's never too late to cover up the violence in order to bolster the status quo.
I know that an abusive family is like a boulder landing on a glass of water -- even if you succeed at lifting the boulder, what is left to drink? When I confronted you, I was certainly aware that you might very well never accept the reality of your abuse, and that I might never again speak to you. Still, I continue to feel angry and disgusted (and yes -- sad and abandoned) by the ways in which you have chosen to maintain a veneer of “respectability” at all costs, including the loss of any relationship with me. I am grateful that you have respected my request not to contact me unless you could say that you raped and molested me, but sometimes it shocks me that you haven't been able to step out from the comfort of denial in order to face the reality of your abusiveness.
Especially now, when you may not live for that much longer.
Sometimes I resent that I have to be the strong one -- even here, against all hopelessness, I’m attempting to facilitate your epiphany that may never come. I am not strong, I am falling apart -- my body is failing me -- you know that. The smallest activities are painful -- chopping vegetables, sitting in the wrong chair, holding the rail on the bus, walking one block too many, carrying a bag. Writing more than a page by hand is enough to make my wrists, arms, shoulders and neck burn, my whole body aching afterwards. Bed is a place where I can sometimes stay, but it fails to nourish me -- many days I'm so exhausted that just leaving the house can be completely overwhelming. I have a strong will, otherwise I would have been dead long ago from the wounds you enacted. I'm strong, but I'm falling apart.
I learned will from surviving you, shutting everything inside even when it pushes back. There are other ways of showing strength. I am still learning them.
Some people, when dealing with a terminal illness, decide to make dramatic changes in their lives. That is what I'm asking from you. I'm not asking whether you love or miss me, whether you feel miserable or guilty. I'm asking you to hold yourself accountable for the pain you have caused me, the pain you continue to cause me, the pain that sometimes I'm worried I won't survive. I'm asking, once again, for you to acknowledge that you raped, sexually abused and molested me. I'm asking you for this because it would make it easier for me to go on living.
On a more mundane level, I would also like for you to ensure that I have enough money to meet my basic needs for the rest of my life. That is something I know you can do, but the most important thing is that you acknowledge that you sexually abused me -- I want to make that clear. I don't think this is a lot to ask.
In any case, I would be dishonest if I didn't say that I would like to see you before you die. Obviously, our conversation would be much richer if you decided to admit that you sexually abused me, but that is your choice.
I haven't yet figured out the parameters of a potential visit, and I will be in touch. Please do not write to me at this point unless it is to acknowledge sexually abusing me.
Love –
mattilda
wow I thought It would all go away as I wrote. Instead it’s getting worse. Realer. It’s so odd, that image. much worse. the chair the inability to sit down in a chair is the image that keeps coming to my mind. what it means for him for me for his father for that violence he has TO FUCKING LIVE WITH EVERYDAY. and why is it we all don’t live with that pain? why are we all dancing away moving away from reality at every moment of our fucking life. i guess it’s because otherwise we couldn’t live bearing with that suffocation.
here’s Mattilda’a letter and the source of all this pain from nobodypasses.blogspot.com
i remember thinking it was so strange he voice recorded his entries. now that most basic part of it has a background that torments me.
I did this event called the Radar Salon recently, a new series hosted and curated by Michelle Tea where two writers (in this case, me and Bucky Sinister) engage in conversation while Michelle asks questions. At one point, Michelle asked how we were both able to be so vulnerable in our work, and I'm not sure exactly what I answered, except that later she asked what we were looking forward to, and I couldn't think about anything except what I was most fearing: deciding whether to visit my father, who I haven't talked to since I confronted him 11 years ago about sexually abusing me -- he's now dying of cancer. I'd just written him a letter, and at the event I said -- in between sobbing -- that I just wished he could say that he sexually abused me, because it would actually make it easier for me to go on living, and he's going to die and what good will it do him to have not acknowledged anything. I usually don't cry like that -- especially not in public -- and it was an incredible moment of public vulnerability where I actually felt supported, both by Michelle and Bucky -- and the audience. It's so important to reveal the violence, the trauma, and the struggles to survive -- and I'm hopeful that it makes me stronger to do so.
So I've decided to visit my father, even though he will almost surely give me nothing that I ask for, and almost everything about the visit will probably be horrible. But I've decided to visit him, because I can't decide to visit him after he dies, so I might as well do it beforehand.
Here is the letter that I wrote to my father:
October 11, 2006
Dear Dad:
It surprised me, after so many years of wanting all traces of you to disappear from my life, but when I first heard that you had cancer, I started fantasizing about ways that I could save you, maybe by offering health advice that you might not seek out-- acupuncture, meditation, guided imagery. Then I started thinking about all of these mundane things -- like talking about publishers with you, the differences between this one high-end lefty publisher with the gorgeous square books and the other one moving into their territory, plus oh the drama of working inside the whole disastrous publishing machine. Most people aren't that interested in publishers, but it seemed like something you might like to hear about. That's when I realized that, even after 11 years of not talking to you, I still held some hope that maybe you would come to terms with sexually abusing me, that you would finally admit it and then perhaps we could have a mundane conversation about publishers.
There is no question that, as a psychiatrist, you have had access to absolutely any possible way to come to terms with sexually abusing me, more resources for dealing with your abuse than almost anyone in a similar situation. Instead, like most parents (and psychiatrists) who sexually abuse their children, you have chosen to deny it. You even contacted a “false memory syndrome” specialist, someone whose job is to assure abusive parents that their children are confused at best, that their memories can be dismissed and discarded, that it's never too late to cover up the violence in order to bolster the status quo.
I know that an abusive family is like a boulder landing on a glass of water -- even if you succeed at lifting the boulder, what is left to drink? When I confronted you, I was certainly aware that you might very well never accept the reality of your abuse, and that I might never again speak to you. Still, I continue to feel angry and disgusted (and yes -- sad and abandoned) by the ways in which you have chosen to maintain a veneer of “respectability” at all costs, including the loss of any relationship with me. I am grateful that you have respected my request not to contact me unless you could say that you raped and molested me, but sometimes it shocks me that you haven't been able to step out from the comfort of denial in order to face the reality of your abusiveness.
Especially now, when you may not live for that much longer.
Sometimes I resent that I have to be the strong one -- even here, against all hopelessness, I’m attempting to facilitate your epiphany that may never come. I am not strong, I am falling apart -- my body is failing me -- you know that. The smallest activities are painful -- chopping vegetables, sitting in the wrong chair, holding the rail on the bus, walking one block too many, carrying a bag. Writing more than a page by hand is enough to make my wrists, arms, shoulders and neck burn, my whole body aching afterwards. Bed is a place where I can sometimes stay, but it fails to nourish me -- many days I'm so exhausted that just leaving the house can be completely overwhelming. I have a strong will, otherwise I would have been dead long ago from the wounds you enacted. I'm strong, but I'm falling apart.
I learned will from surviving you, shutting everything inside even when it pushes back. There are other ways of showing strength. I am still learning them.
Some people, when dealing with a terminal illness, decide to make dramatic changes in their lives. That is what I'm asking from you. I'm not asking whether you love or miss me, whether you feel miserable or guilty. I'm asking you to hold yourself accountable for the pain you have caused me, the pain you continue to cause me, the pain that sometimes I'm worried I won't survive. I'm asking, once again, for you to acknowledge that you raped, sexually abused and molested me. I'm asking you for this because it would make it easier for me to go on living.
On a more mundane level, I would also like for you to ensure that I have enough money to meet my basic needs for the rest of my life. That is something I know you can do, but the most important thing is that you acknowledge that you sexually abused me -- I want to make that clear. I don't think this is a lot to ask.
In any case, I would be dishonest if I didn't say that I would like to see you before you die. Obviously, our conversation would be much richer if you decided to admit that you sexually abused me, but that is your choice.
I haven't yet figured out the parameters of a potential visit, and I will be in touch. Please do not write to me at this point unless it is to acknowledge sexually abusing me.
Love –
mattilda
melancholy
[for a revolution]
lethargic
