When She’s Dead and Buried

The question was put to me, “I understand hypervigilance was imperative as a child and in early adulthood years but do you think its productive now? Do you need this much awareness in your life now?” My answer was this, “Yes. As long as she’s alive I need it. As long as she’s breathing she’s a threat to me.”

I figure this woman is going to linger on cause most evil people do. She’s only 62 which means she’ll be around for a bit. That young plus a black heart means she’ll take forever and a day before freeing the world of her presence. I believe then and only then will I believe I’m safe. Then and only then will I be sure I won’t run into her on the street or fear she’s standing in my bedroom doorway watching me. She won’t show up on my doorstep like last Christmas. In death she can’t physically hit me or break me with a word. Yeah, I’m still scared to death of her and with good cause.

In therapy we talked about how cold the beatings were. I could tell from how hard she hit me if she was angry at me, at someone else or just needed to blow off steam. She hit hardest when she was angry with me. At this very moment I can only think of 2 things I did that prompted a beating. A paper umbrella was broken and she said I lied. Other than those two things I can’t recall a specific reason for her brutality sessions. I call them sessions because at times when I felt my bind on the verge of breaking I’d look up at her and tell her I needed to stop. I needed a break. I’d roll over and she’d stop for a few minutes then start again. Most of the time she was calculated and methodical.

For some reason I’ve been dreaming about people who refuse to call me by my chosen name. In the dreams these people, specifically my sister, will call me everything but what I’ve asked to call me. I’m furious and tell them they have no choice in the matter they WILL call me by my chosen name or not speak to me at all. My sister insists upon stripping my identity and switching it up at will. These dreams reminded me of how often my mother told me she wanted to change my name. She wanted to change my name to Jade, Star, Africa or Asia. For a long time she called me Jade. For them my identity could be changed at will. I was who she said I was, no questions asked. My name changed but to my mother I was always a liar, a thief and disloyal. It didn’t matter if I was Asia or Africa, Jade or Star I was still a bad child. I was still property. I was still well groomed to be a multiple.

My ability to trust that the abuse is over is slim. I think as long as she’s living she’s a threat to me, my identity and what peace of mind she didn’t destroy.

I wish she would just go so I can mourn her passing, mourn what I never got and never will get then finally, finally lay my head down and go to sleep knowing she can never, ever, ever hurt me again.

fma

When She’s Dead and Buried – Tuesday, June 30, 2009 – 11:11AM EST