Mon, Dec. 4th,
I am afraid of emotions. I fear being in control. I want oblivion.
I learned that Jenni was raped when she was 11 and that she kept it to herself all those years--that poor child! I was numb on Fri. and went to the crisis hour. On Sat. night I went to the Christmas dance. I danced with 6 men--I asked 3 and 3 asked me. I still felt like a reject. Men would just pass me by like I was invisible. I didn't get there until 9 and 11 I left because I'd rather be home reading the paper.
Sunday night I began to cry. I cried for several hours. Annie called and said she was losing her vision. It sounded like what Jenni had. I feel so helpless. I can't take care of me, let alone the girls, but they need me. I wanted oblivion. Once again I just wanted out. I tried to let the emotions out and look inside. I cried the hardest when I realized that no man ever really loves me. i.e., I am unloveable.
Dec. 10. I went to the Depression group on Wed. and didn't say a word. I was disturbed by the person next to me because I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman dressed like a man but I didn't want a man next to me. The 3 other women had been sexually or emotionally abused. I thought, "why do they think I belong here?" But what was the worst scary part was that I knew what the woman who was sexually abused meant when she described her feelings of rehearsing what she was going to say to people for a week or more--no sponteneity, and feeling a sexual feeling for someone who is just trying to be a friend.
Jan 3, 1996
I feel split between wanting to engage in life and wanting to numb out. I feel my urge to take Xanax even when nothing has gone badly. Of the 5 I took from my supply at Lydias, I have only taken 1/2, the 1st night I was in St. Louis. But several times since I've come back, I've wanted to take all 4 whole ones. Of course, I'd probably sleep for 2 solid days and lose my job. I'm not having trouble sleeping--I'm sleeping about 10 hours a night.
I wish I could believe, even for a second, that the crying you did after I told you about being raped had had anything to do with me. But I don't. I'm in the same paragraph as you going dancing. The very first time I read this I turned to Ralph, my husband, and read it out loud to him. "I learned that Jenni was raped when she was 11 and that she kept it to herself all those years--poor child! I was numb on Fri. and went to crisis hour. On Sat. night I went to the Christmas dance."
I suppose I should be grateful I got an exclamation point.
But I'm not. I'm not grateful. I was grateful at the time you hadn't made a big deal about it; I was finally emotionally ready to press charges against the rapist (who never even went to trial, but pleaded out to lesser charges despite the fact that at least 7 OTHER women had come out to accuse him of rape). At the time, I was glad you hadn't gone out for some Colorado Justice and landed yourself in prison.
But now I'm angry.
I'm your daughter. A man forced himself on me (not the first, not the last, but damn it, Mom!). You should be angrier about this. You should be hurt by this. You should not put this in the same paragraph as going to the Christmas Dance.
It's possible you were pushing down your feelings of it. In fact, more than possible or plausible or probable: you were definitely pushing down your feelings about this. But man, what's it take for a girl to get some attention around here? Or her own paragraph?
This is me pushing down my own feelings, playing the funny-girl instead of what I want to say. What I want to say is Fuck you. Fuck you for me EVER feeling sorry for you. Do you even KNOW what I've gone through in my life? Could you have SOME compassion for me at all?
Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.
I'm angry. I'm hurt that you don't seem to care. This is your DIARY, where you write about your feelings. And although I may have skipped that particular entry for your dignity, I've read about masturbation, and do you know what I thought? I thought, "Good for you!" I've been agonizing on whether or not you suffered through what I did as a child, and if your terror of facing the truth had anything to do with your suicide career.
And I tell you about the rape, and you say, "poor child! Hey, I went dancing. . ."
I spent almost thirty years trying to feel compassion for you. Wondering when the call was coming that you had killed yourself. Jumping every time the phone rang. I still am afraid of phones.
Even this project is a way to connect with you, now that your diaries are open. I know you wanted me to read them, so I read them.
But I read this.
I have this theory about depression which is probably offensive to a lot of people, but it jibes with my own experience, my friends', my sister's, yours. . .depression is a selfish disease. It makes you think about yourself, and not about other people. Whether it is chemical or electrical or what, it makes you selfish. And coming out of Depression almost always involves getting your mind off of yourself, breaking the selfish patterns, and doing things to help other people. (even if it also involves medication. I'm not saying it is not a real disorder. I know how serious it is).
But this kind of comment confirms what I believe about it: that you lost connection to me. That you were unable to think about me except how it impacted you. My being raped four and a half years prior to this entry didn't affect you at all, so you moved on. Annie's migraines (loss of vision) DID affect you, as did mine, since they made you feel helpless. But rape? Heck, it's nothing for our family, huh?