Confusion – Journal Entry Real Life

 

Don’t read any further if upset by injustice, neglect, poverty and perversion.

This be trigger city for some.

This is your last chance, I’m blunt but not coarse, I am going to discuss a terrible subject in the lightest possible manner.

Confusion.

When I was a child I was assaulted by an adult man (in the worst way). The most prominent symptom, apart from the physical pain was that of severe confusion. I became OCD as a result of trying to come to terms.

The whole thing was so completely and utterly at odds with everything I knew then, I was under ten years old and used to dolls, handstands and dresses. I went off dresses, handstands and dolls.

I’m fifty-one years old now. I love dresses now. Sod the handstands. It may surprise people to know that some actions are never forgotten – no matter how many other, lovely, consensual sexual moments one does experience.

If you were to get complacent and fool yourself, a flash back will remind you. Today I had one, it must have been ten years since the last. His face appeared when I was having wink. I decided to have an imaginary wiss on him. He went.

For a longest time, I thought along the lines of ‘why me?’ But then it became all about recovery, mainly because I have children. Many different pathways of recovery were tried.

I didn’t recover quickly because I was pushed towards forgiveness. No confrontation, no justice and no reasonable explanation. It took ages, as the confusion became anger, festered and grew  to become depression.

How does forgiveness help? If no one is saying sorry, you can only forgive so much.

Attending lots of therapy – when my children were young, I needed to deal with my anger and more recently, I started writing this online journal and some books to help. It really does help too. Whether it helps you or not is another matter…

These days, I feel that I am better, adjusted as much as humanly possible. I’m able to think about what happened back in Widewell Woods with less emotion and I apologise if I cause any harm or painful memories to those reading this. I understand it’s place in my life story.

It does not define me, but it is part of me, unfortunately, a regret out of my hands.

There are no safe places for children if we don’t fully understand. I feel it is not just a sexual fetish with innocence, even ‘perceived innocence’ is not the full picture. Control plays a part. It is a form of soul capture…making an imprint on a person for life. The man who hurt me was playing god.

Perhaps this is why the church didn’t help me. They couldn’t play god any more with me…I’d worked out he wasn’t really there to protect us at all because anyone could come along and trump him.

Obviously, no assault or abuse is the same. I’m going to come out with something controversial and declare that there was nothing sexually charged about the scene of my sexual assault.

It was a moment of ruination.

He wanted to ruin a female life, he planned to ruin it and he had, but it hadn’t ‘satisfied’ him. I suspect he wouldn’t have been satisfied until he’d taken more but a disturbance didn’t give him time.

He wanted to ruin a girl – in order to ruin a woman.

He did succeed for a while, but something was able to absorb the hatred I had, not the confusion, just the hatred. God was my buffer. I thank the ideology for that much, begrudgingly.

No one else cared enough for it to be effective if I was angry at them. It was only the church who had appeared in my life, made me feel some promise and then let me down, that it was worth getting angry with in my child’s mind.

No one promised life would be another way, ever. Since living with Dad and step mum I knew a life of pain. God had promised happiness if I followed certain rules. I had followed his rules.

I could be justifiably angry with him.

The assault shone a light on other confusions. Things my step mother had said some years before. I’d  started at school but was off sick. We had to go out. I’d upset her by slowing the process down. I was crying and she was pulling me about, putting my shoes on.

I said something to the effect that she was hurting me. The shoes were too small and they’d yet to be cut so that my feet could grow. This was a common thing for British families struggling in the 1970s. I had trouble with the buckles, they were too difficult for me to do up, she was angry.

In her defence, she was not my mother, I was yet to be diagnosed. Labelled stupid and clumsy because of the Elhers Danlos and extremely short sighted, it could not have been easy. I mean, it must have been frustrating for her.

It was horrifying for me, but I knew no different.

She spat her words at me,

“You should think yourself lucky, I could be shoving coat hangers up inside you.”

It was an odd thing to say to a five year old.

I had no idea of a vagina, only the vulva. I only knew the outside of my biological self.

My creative inners, ‘my vagina’, womb or ovaries were not on my radar. Biology is good like this, the female genitalia are not exactly accessible. I assumed she meant put coat hangers inside me via my belly button, that was, until Widewell, the man and the sexual assault.

In emotional health terms this is called ‘sexualization’. Children should not be sexualized early, it’s not healthy mentally, emotionally or physically. This is why we use terms like, the bird and the bees, the stork brought the baby and don’t discuss or do sexual things in front of children. We protect their innocence of creation.

The human act of copulation is not a child’s business. Children are just the result…

The man who assaulted me knew this. He knew he had no business going in my pants. I knew too and tried to stop him. It took him seconds to ruin my life, to change my perspective. In that moment, he set me apart from everything. He distanced me from my peers, my step mother, my father and just about everyone I knew.

How could a weak man gain control over strong, healthy and vibrant women other than to sabotage her as a child? This man is a coward, no more. A terminator of women…going back to a weaker point in their biological past to ruin them.

I know now he lacks the respect for women he should have, and his action is that of a misogynist.

I stayed fascinated with sex for decades, attempting to understand it’s dynamics. I can tell what desire is and what is hatred. I recognise love and respect and can see usage and control.

He was looking at my face when he hurt me. His was not a pretty face.

The man who assaulted me did not fancy me. He wasn’t attracted to me…he isn’t attracted to children. I’ll be very clear, he was into ruination, he wanted to destroy, to take my soul – his intention was only to hurt and cause pain.

He knew I was confused, he hoped it’d be hurting me forever, but it didn’t appear to make him happy. His brown, watery eyes were sad and angry as they looked into mine.

Gaining only sour gratification of his bitter hatred for women, he assaulted me, and then walked away. For all I know, back to his wife and children. Sorry, but it could be true – it’s all too late to do anything now and I didn’t do anything then.

The last human bone fuses for adulthood around thirty years old. I’m still confused at how females can be safely ready for child birth or penetrative sex beforehand.

Perhaps a doctor could explain it to me? Vets protect the youngsters from grown adult males in zoos.

Paedophiles are nothing more than human time travelling terminators, murderers of souls. They should not be given an audience at any level other than disgust. They should be kept away from society and not housed near families. I’d go as far to say that they should all be rounded up and put in Chinese style re-education camps until they change their views.


The End.

By Samantha “unextraordinarybint” Harris.

A small part of my own life story.

 

 

 

King’s College Hospital, London.

Why I am Frightened of Going into Hospital. Part One.

It was the pain from the cold that woke me. That, and EDS’ ability to withstand knock out drugs. I tried to raise my head and look around. Lying in a huge corridor and listening to a conversation between staff members going on so close I couldn’t avoid it, I’m shaking with the temperature.

I tried to turn my head to where the voices are. I had wanted to ask them to shut the door. My mouth opened to speak, no sound came out of me. My eyes met with a heavy set woman, looking at me. She was in nurse’s uniform, standing at the side of my narrow bed.

I looked around at my surroundings. There were twenty to thirty beds with bodies on. Some were so close to me I could have reached out and touched them, others were like boats in a harbour floating away, down the corridor. Barges of sleeping bodies. They were all pale, some grey and older and some more pinkish and young. All of us in surgical gowns of white with pokka dots.

Our gowns were all in different positions, but everyone’s knees, feet and arms were bare. The door at the end of the corridor was open and staff were coming and going through it dressed in heavy coats with bags, chatting to each other and banging the beds as they passed.

I was very cold, and I was shivering and in pain. I became concerned that I would get very ill if left too much longer in the environment and was feeling quite vulnerable, being undressed and all with strangers going passed. Also, I was a little worried why I couldn’t talk, my throat being completely blocked.

Needing to get a blanket on me, I raised my head and tried to talk but just a funny squeak came from my throat.  I was completely shocked when the woman beside me put a hard mask over my face and forced my head back onto the bed. All done without a word. Unfortunately, the mask was placed down on the ridge on my nose, a little too high for my prominent nose.

With nose squashed and mouth not working properly, the mask was now blocking off my air.  I tried to breathe in through my mouth, over and over again, but something was wrong. As I was breathing in, my mouth and cheeks were being sucked up into the mask like I was stuck in a plastic bag.

The more I breathed in the more the mask just came towards me. I raised my hand but gained no attention, so I put my hands up to grab hold of the bottom of the mask, I wanted to remove it, and breathe again. That’s when I felt another pair of hands hold my arms down by my sides.

So, many things were running through my head, mainly trying not to panic. I now had two nurses, both larger than me, holding a mask on my face and I couldn’t breathe. Neither of them was saying anything to me and I couldn’t talk. I tried to move my head from side to side to dislodge the mask, but couldn’t. Then I decided to just stay calm so maybe they would release it.

I looked around at the first nurse, deep into her black eyes and pleaded with her as best as I could…asking, “why?” silently with my soul… I can feel my lips and cheeks sucking up against the hard plastic around my face and realise I’m going to die as the pain in my chest is burning from lack of air. I can feel little pop sounds in my lungs and ears.

It’s amazing how much you can think in a moment. I realised that it had to be obvious I’m not breathing properly as there is no gap between my face and the mask. It is so hard on my face that my facial skin is stuck to the inside and I can no longer pull breaths as the bottom half of my face is glued to the inside of the mask in a vacuum.

No response. She just stared back at me with nothing. Then self-preservation set in.

I bring my legs up and attempt to kick the pair of them in their heads, to get the mask off. I may be ill but when you think your life in on the line it’s surprising the amount of strength you have. In fact, fighting is one of the few things where being hypermobiles can be an advantage. Our range of movement from a cold start is amazing, and I was able to get a hand under the mask.

The struggle continued for some time with me gaining the odd breath between them forcing the mask back on. My voice, although not working, is making a strange sort of noise, high pitched very quiet squeaks and I kept trying to look in their faces but my head kept being forced back.

Someone came to try and hold my legs, and another person held my shoulders, and then I really went nuts because I thought they will kill me! I was then fighting in the air above the bed with them, I was moving around so fast…I wriggling and kicking out hard in every direction.

Obviously, I came off worse with a damaged nose and bruising all around my throat, neck, shoulders, arms and legs although I didn’t know it at the time. What did happen at the time, was the ‘struggle’ did get attention. One of the men I had kicked, shouted at me, it caused an anaesthetist, in a white lab coat to come out of one of the rooms and shout, ‘what’s going on here?’

I’m grateful he did.  As he introduced himself, the first nurse backed away from my side, reached down under me and turned something – almost instantly, I could smell something coming through the mask lying near my face. I looked at her and she looked straight back at me.

As I was breathing fine without, I indicated that I didn’t want the mask. It was then I was informed that my oxygen levels had been low, so I had to have the mask on. I was obviously visibly upset but I still couldn’t talk or explain what had happened.

The anaesthetist stayed with me whilst I calmed. He told me my throat was sore from having a pipe down it during my surgery. He watched the original nurse place the mask back on my face and then he showed her how to do it properly without blocking off my nose.

After the white coated hero had left the first nurse looked down at me, telling me she hadn’t had a break for seven hours…

Thankfully, although I did want to say plenty to her, I still couldn’t speak.