Throughout my life, I've come to realize that I'm apparently not entitled to a good night's sleep, nor am I the kind of person who can have a pleasant, quitet, peaceful dream.
I'm afraid of the dark. ever since I was a little kid, I've never been able to stay calm where there's no light. I'm also not particularly fond of enclosed spaces, but that's another story.
When I was a kid, they made me sleep with the door closed and the lights off. Immediately after my father would close the door, I'd start imagining the creatures that lurked in the dark, under my bed,or inside my closet. I tried to stay awake so they wouldn't eat me. Every night, I cried in silence until I finally fell asleep.
When I was about 6, the beatings started. He'd come home, staggering and reeking of alcohol,calling out for my mother. At first, she'd tell me to go to my room, and I'd stay there, lights out and covers over my head, hoping the sound would fade away, or that he'd pass out and leave her alone. The first time he hit me, it was because he'd heard me cry. After that, it became an everyday thing; he'd go for my mother, and I'd run and hide while he did to her whatever he feltlike that day. Then, when he was done, he'd start this twisted game of hide and seek with me. If he couldn't find me easily, he'd grow angry and take it out on anything that crossed his path, my mother included, until he found me, and then he'd punish me for hiding from him. But it was preferable to what happened if he did find me.
Things only got worse from then, and every night, after he was "done" with me, I had to stay in that room, in that bed where he had hurt me. I felt him there, like my room was his prision for me. There was no running from that.There was no running from him. If I said "no", then he'd lock me up in the basement, or under the stairs, or the closet...and he'd leave me there for hours. There were rats in the basement, and spiders. But he gave a fuck. Nights went by, hour by hour...and suddenly, being asleep or awake made no difference, 'cause it was all the same. He was everywhere, with the rats and spiders and shadows in the dark, and the noises that came from the dingy,dust-covered corners of the house.
We tried telling. I tried running, but mom wouldn't let me. We needed him.
I ran away from home at 16, but I could never run away from my father. He was there every time I tried to sleep. Every man I lived with had his face, his smell, his touch... I knew he'd follow me everywhere.
I hadn't slept in two weeks the night I was arrested. Lights, sounds, and a tone of voice that was all-too familiar for me, a kind of violence I knew well.
18 months in jail. Posession. And it was dark there. I was back to the situation I had been running from for six years.
I'm afraid of the dark. ever since I was a little kid, I've never been able to stay calm where there's no light. I'm also not particularly fond of enclosed spaces, but that's another story.
When I was a kid, they made me sleep with the door closed and the lights off. Immediately after my father would close the door, I'd start imagining the creatures that lurked in the dark, under my bed,or inside my closet. I tried to stay awake so they wouldn't eat me. Every night, I cried in silence until I finally fell asleep.
When I was about 6, the beatings started. He'd come home, staggering and reeking of alcohol,calling out for my mother. At first, she'd tell me to go to my room, and I'd stay there, lights out and covers over my head, hoping the sound would fade away, or that he'd pass out and leave her alone. The first time he hit me, it was because he'd heard me cry. After that, it became an everyday thing; he'd go for my mother, and I'd run and hide while he did to her whatever he feltlike that day. Then, when he was done, he'd start this twisted game of hide and seek with me. If he couldn't find me easily, he'd grow angry and take it out on anything that crossed his path, my mother included, until he found me, and then he'd punish me for hiding from him. But it was preferable to what happened if he did find me.
Things only got worse from then, and every night, after he was "done" with me, I had to stay in that room, in that bed where he had hurt me. I felt him there, like my room was his prision for me. There was no running from that.There was no running from him. If I said "no", then he'd lock me up in the basement, or under the stairs, or the closet...and he'd leave me there for hours. There were rats in the basement, and spiders. But he gave a fuck. Nights went by, hour by hour...and suddenly, being asleep or awake made no difference, 'cause it was all the same. He was everywhere, with the rats and spiders and shadows in the dark, and the noises that came from the dingy,dust-covered corners of the house.
We tried telling. I tried running, but mom wouldn't let me. We needed him.
I ran away from home at 16, but I could never run away from my father. He was there every time I tried to sleep. Every man I lived with had his face, his smell, his touch... I knew he'd follow me everywhere.
I hadn't slept in two weeks the night I was arrested. Lights, sounds, and a tone of voice that was all-too familiar for me, a kind of violence I knew well.
18 months in jail. Posession. And it was dark there. I was back to the situation I had been running from for six years.
In jail, I started using heroin, and I discovered the joys of dreamless sleeping. It was a bliss,to actually get to rest during those moments of not thinking; everything around me was gone for a moment, and I got lost in the sensations, the adrenaline rush. I slept relatively fine when I used heroin, and that's something I must confess I miss.
I really don't know how to continue this. We've come to the point where I don't know how to put what needs to be said in words...or rather, I don't want to.
I've been to rehab twice. The first time was in 1995. I was fresh out of jail, and it was part of my sentence. That's where I, unknowingly, met some of the most important people in my life.
What happened at the clinic is something I won't talk about this time. I think it's enough if I say I still have nightmares about it even now. I dream that he sees Jill,and then spots me...that's when I wake up. I don't want to find out what happens next, 'cause I know.
What happened at the clinic is something I won't talk about this time. I think it's enough if I say I still have nightmares about it even now. I dream that he sees Jill,and then spots me...that's when I wake up. I don't want to find out what happens next, 'cause I know.
I ran away from the clinic. I left the city, moved as far away from there as I could. I spent ten years hiding, selling myself for a hit so I could forget everything I had left behind in NY. I found someone more or less stable who treated me a little less like shit and more like a woman, and I moved in with him. We had...well, not a decent life, but it was not shitty, either. We got money, we both used, we could afford food, we went out...you know, things you're supposed to do and have when you're young. 20-something young.
But I got sick. Bored of the same thing, of the comfortable life.
I hopped on some stranger's car and let him drive me wherever he was going. I had drugs, some cash, and my body to pay for the trip.
Guess my surprise when, after three days of road trip, I woke up to find myself at the hospital, on the same city I had ran away from ten years ago.
That was my second rehab. That's how he found me.
This is it for now. I'll continue tomorrow.
