We talked about what started a flash of memories and a post about getting out the first wave of emotions associated with those memories.
I did it again. I saw a video on Facebook that sent me reeling. No more Facebook for a bit. One would think, at the first triggering content I’d click to end the video but that doesn’t always happen. I watched the video in horror, with my own rage, then later wrote my feelings in a free style kind of writing. I called myself too sensitive. I keep seeing videos that take me places I don’t want to go.
The video was about a man, a thug, who suffered from depression and wanted to die since he was 9 years old. In the video he hanged himself. I covered my eyes while his feet kicked. I remember saying, “Oh God, Oh God”, but I didn’t turn it off. I wanted the resolution. I wanted the video to do a rewind and show some sort of intervention and plug mental health. I didn’t get that. I got a second time of him living where he shot himself in the head. Loud noise, bam!
I covered my eyes, still didn’t turn it off, too invested? too shocked? too much need to have validated that I too would kick the casket and yell at the body the way the man in the video did. He asked, “Are you happy now? Did you get what you wanted? Is this what you wanted?” I was so angry watching that video, so angry and emotionally destroyed as I saw my brother laying there, a young man who took his life and gouged a hole in those who are still living.
The survivor in the video cried and screamed at the body. He acknowledged the war between understanding and hating him for what he did. He said he was a coward, selfish and that he wished he’d known. He was torn, as I am, about being robbed by suicide. It’s a back and forth battle between truly understanding and hating that person for passing this pain on to others. It is a torturous inheritance.
My brother was a violinist who studied at the University of California, Berkeley before moving on to New York where he settled in Brooklyn.
It’s difficult to enjoy orchestra now since my favorite instruments are strings. It saddens me to hear the whine of a cello or hear the violin played with heart because it drags mine with the bow. Then there’s my mother who had no right whatsoever to abuse herself to the point of destroying her mind. She had no right to abuse her diabetes so badly that her mind decayed and she became more violent than when she was just a sadist. I survived her. I can’t believe I survived her.
Dr. D and I talked about the yellow mattress where my head was pressed so hard I couldn’t see anything. I was in so much pain I felt I’d lose my mind. I worried if I let go I’d lose it and never come back. We talked about the color yellow and how it symbolizes for me all the things that are disgusting and vile. Yellow symbolizes sexual abuse, physical humiliation and spiritual rape. Yellow was the color of my mothere’s mattress with the sheets torn off. The color yellow is about the other person’s actions, not mine. It symbolizes all that degrades a human being. Had my mother’s mattress been blue, blue would represent life endured while living with her.
There is no dignity in cleaning a loved one off the floor. Sometimes there is no feeling of sympathy, love or understanding when wiping a loved one off the walls of your mind. It just continues to hurt, and they just continue to decay in you, until you pass out from your own pain.
All the stuff you’re not supposed to say, you say. All the correct feelings you’re supposed to feel, you don’t feel. You just want to spit in their open casket. You just want to slap them, shake them, tell them to get back here and stop this, stop this!! you stupid idiot, stop this! There is nothing politically correct about suicide, nothing.