silence from you is like the death of a tune (richips) wrote in _survivors_,
silence from you is like the death of a tune

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Don't you think there's more, I really want to know, don't you think there's more to life?

it's been a while since i have posted here.
i wrote this in my journal today, but i feel i would get a more relevant response here.
i hope you've all been well. take care of yourselves, okay?

apologies for not being more detailed about trigger possibilities. hope this is better. do let me know if you need me to edit this in any other way. safe hugs to all!

Just as i was starting to get comfortable, in a very good way. I won't say that i was surprised.

Lisa, whom i work for and live with, all of a sudden lent me the book The Unsayable by Annie Rogers.
Lisa is a therapist/psychoanalyst, so is Annie Rogers (who happens to be a professor at Hampshire College).
This is nonfiction about childhood sexual abuse.

it is Saturday evening, i've cleaned, I am in the kitchen cooking and waiting and reading at the table, i haven't read at a table in a while.
What Annie writes at first is beautiful, with a simplicity of pleasantly incomplete narration. so i keep reading.

then she, gently, unravels some of her story. there is much about memory. going somewhere else in her head and coming back not knowing her basic routines. coming back from the hospital having forgotten how to read, or the languages she learned, dreams (or are they?) of snippets of strange things her father did, her mother, to her. are we crazy? did we dream it? did we make it up? am i with you so far? yes. i know it happened. sometimes not sure what. because it really is bizarre, especially when you are a child. what do we know what our lives are supposed to be like?
oh Annie, me too. i can't read. i used to devour the words, not anymore, not even something i know i would love and explore, like one of my selves recommending a book to my other self; but ze's in the hospital, or it's 5 am and scribbling mediocrity to try and get through high school. still that headache.
oh Annie, me too. i taught myself to read and write when i was 3 or so, what a prodigy? but now i'd rather hear nails screeching on a chalk board than that language. i walk by people speaking it and mutter "shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up" under my breath until they pass (it was easier before the mp3 player was stolen). what kind of life is this? then i was young enough to pick up this language quickly. then i fell in love with French, and maybe i could have mastered it, but by that time childhood was doing its catching up.
oh Annie, me too. i stand at work in front of the filing cabinet. i know where the paper goes. but i stare at the cabinet. i can't remember why i came here.

i thought about how i speak about what happened to me all the time, but i only say it as words. i don't feel it out. trying to desensitize the words from the past. and i guess it's been nice, i've made myself not think, well, feel about what actually happened, the snippets of these disgusting memories.

then i came to the realization that maybe the reason i don't have any memory is from my psyche, or me, trying so hard to forget these select things and not to learn the habits and all of that, that i've lost the ability to remember and learn altogether. so i had myself a little cry.

then i kept reading, and she described a few more details, and some of what happened to her is exactly like some of what happened to me. so i felt a memory out. and that was not pleasant. but it also helped me confirm something. abusers have this way of making you believe that you are making shit up, they make you question yourself, they make you feel guilty about recognizing the abuse. i still fall into that. there is this thing that was one of the worst. and Annie has a passage about it, a memory just like one of mine, something i know happened, i won't say what it is, but she mentions coming to the realization that "it wasn't a necessary medical procedure but in fact child sexual molestation."
so it was good to be minorly redeemed, but shitty to be reminded. so i had myself another little cry.

there are some cases in which one should forget but not forgive, not the other way around, and i think that this is justifiably one of them. and that is what i want to do, forget but not forgive. i used to forgive what happened, and even return it with love, but i have rescinded both. now i want to forget.

as for the book, i was not mad at Lisa. there is no rational reason to be. i did, however, want to go downstairs and knock on her door, late night and with my rare tears, and ask her if she remembered what prompted her to lend me this book. but this house has enough problems without me doing that.

anyway, i'm fine. i really just wanted to make the point about memory and that connection. but as always i say too much.


i called the guy who stole my stuff again. i had a conversation with him. this is funny. though again it ended in "you have the wrong number," even though at first he was willing to listen to me for a good bit. but i think that's because he didn't really understand me, as he has a thick accent. honestly man, i am prepared to thank you for stealing my stuff - the mp3 player, the cash, the phone. but i really do need my social security card and my green card. the fuck you need it for anyway? you'll go to jail for identity theft if you try to use them. i've spoken to the Brookline police and the Cambridge police. i don't think they are going to be very helpful, though i am going to the Cambridge PoPo tomorrow anyway because it's worth a shot. i mean i can log on and tell everywhere the guy has called, one of which is Brookline - how is that NOT helpful to catching him? me = without identification besides a copy of my birth certificate. IN AZERBAIJANI. and not with my current name. fun? okay and a copy of it in English and the name change, but i think it's funny that i have my Azerbaijani birth certificate (and am grateful that it's not in the other language). but this still does not identification make, as there is no photo. and you need more to be a person according to the government. i think it would be funny if this ends up in me going to jail rather than him. everything is very funny.

life without a phone or internet(at home) is funny. i can't really reach anyone. but i also can. it makes me want to take advantage of it and leave. but then i see how stressed out my boss is. i am not allowed to complain, in my opinion, though i do so constantly, and though my friends think otherwise.


i really like this song, and The Innocence Mission in general. Since i have no internet at home, i can't upload the actual song for you to experience, unfortunately, so the best i can do is lyrics.

I showed him my notebook
the underside of my soul released
in scribbles on pages
he smiled and held my hand

I knew that he would see
for he dreams of touching beauty, too
there has to be more than the work day

he's painting houses
he's painting houses for awhile
then home to his canvas
coming to life

I write in my notebook
this feeling, it takes me by surprise
in thoughts that I don't know that I have

they're hidden by useless facts that I
compile at the office where I work
where there is no time for
feeling anything

you see I just work there
to finance the real life that begins
with scribbles on pages
and thoughts of how and why

museums on sundays
whenever we can we both go
and stay there for hours, feeding our spirit

and beauty is still free
and beauty is not exclusive
and beauty is ours to touch and to know
touch and to know

and don't you think there's more
I really have to know
don't you think there's more to life?
don't you think there's more to life?
Tags: book suggestions, memories, poetry/prose

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