I was mad at my blog. Sounds weird doesn't it? Mad at something I intentionally created, that was born directly from what's inside of me. I reread my writings to date and realized why it was always difficult for me to share my previous writings or even be honest about my past. The word "Honest" sounds weird too considering I wouldn't or couldn't even recall most of my past. So yeah, the floodgates are now cracked and my mind is becoming an infestation of visions mushed together like someone keeps flicking the remote of the HDTV with an endless selection of channels. Yep, I know they are flashbacks and not all of them are clear yet but I'm getting glimpses of situations I had thought I must've read about or just made up. It's very disturbing to really accept that my mind, which was protecting me, is now causing me pain. I'm sure these things must be revealed and every defense mechanism will eventually become a problem but this is just a bit much.
So I was sitting on the subway today and this woman gets on right as the doors are closing. I look up and I'm suddenly around 9 years old, standing in the dimly lit "living room" of this, what could have been beautiful, brownstone. I'm supposed to be on my way to the store with the food stamp booklet but I'm waiting for the list. As she's writing and breathing extremely heavy in that way she did, she begins to slow down, then the pen stops mid-word and her head begins to bow slowly. She's nodding off again. I was standing there as usual, clenched hands trying to make natural sounding noises like clearing my throat so that she would wake up. If I walked away I would get in trouble because it was considered disrespectful to walk away from an adult before they were through with you. I stood there for what seemed like hours listening to the unnatural rattling of the one lung she had straining to support a heroine/methadone riddled body. That poor lung must've been working like a slave cuz it got no benefits being in that body. Since she was nodding I figured it was the methadone. How did I know this at such a young age?...well because I noticed some patterns. When she would come back to the house from "the program", she'd be a bit weirder than usual. I remember the first time I found the needles clearly hidden in my top dresser draw. There was a syringe with an old looking rubber balloon on the top, a long rubber cord and some other things I can't describe. I later found out they were called their "works" or the kit they used to shoot up. There would be times when she would be baking a cake and be so on and engaged that I was concerned about all the body twisting and jerking but then there was these times like this one where I stood still, trying not to be seen or disrespectful and call out her name but desperately wanting to move, for her to wake up and for me to get out of the door or maybe just disappear. I learned how to shut down my body in those moments and to become numb. I did this so if I got tired of standing still I could shut it off, if I got fidgety I'd hold it in, and if I had to pee I would wait and hold it for as long as it took. I guess this was my mind already starting to become familiar with disassociation.
So the woman on the train eventually sits next to me, just my luck, and starts rummaging thru her bag non-stop. She's in the fidgety mode right before the nodding starts. Sure enough her head starts going down and she leans to her left, towards me. As I squeeze my body against the cold steel of the seat barrier next to the door I kept saying to myself that I was going to have three huge marks on my side. I was pressed against the poles so hard that I was spilling out of the other side. The lady eventually jumped up and started rummaging again and I realized I was holding my breath so I exhaled. I ask myself now why didn't I just get up and go to another seat or change cars but it was just like the living room…I was held captive by that nod. I was paralyzed until I was acknowledged again. The drug came first and then someone along the line I did.
So yeah, back to mad at my blog. I guess this recall phase of my treatment isn't going to be pleasant at all. Being transported back in time almost 30 years can be debilitating. I suppose an average person would have just gotten up from their seat or may not even have noticed that the woman on the train had a heroine/methadone issue. Guess I will never be considered average.