[Harapa]

But first, a societal note. Why do people tend to stay in small, middle/lower class communities with few crime reports, crumbling schools [whose representative responds to unsatisfied federal performance reports by insisting that the school can be deemed either satisfactory or unsatisfactory, and that state ranking include two extra options, a projection of responsibility and accountability in which it is not mentioned that they indeed scored "poor" by state standards], uncounted drug suppliers, low resulting crime rates, and non-existent legal/psychological resources?

Aha.

Anyways, I’ve had a little more time and a limited offering of sudden freedom – spent less developing attachments with pedophiles and the like online than had been in the last few years and somewhat more in a school marked by its blatant limit of genuine academic resources and a social dynamic of gang-like tendencies that thrived on the daily verbal and sexual harassment of the 1-3 female students [the existence of whom was related with mothers who spend more time making heroin than beds and blamed for the lack of nurture from fathers who likewise blame their mothers aka women young and old] attending at any one time – in which to view circumstances past from a comparatively objective viewpoint than the one found untwitchingly within them; that is, the implausibly and unfoundedly repressed and isolated world of abuse at the whims and scapegoating of relatives who I sincerely identify as genuine narcissists.
I’ve spent a lot of time in the company of those who do not feel shame - those who do not burden themselves with empathy and are not abashed by the cruelty or selfishness of their actions in the attempt to feel at good at all costs; and those endless more who simply enable them, congratulating themselves on the moral high ground of inward and outward denial.

At 14, in the radically unjustified message of acceptance and support [interchanged with periods of suicide and abandonment threats that developed an underlying foundation of submission and co-dependency] by a man named Brandon White I found an obsession that, when viewed in the light of unconditional love, served as the ultimate sense of security. He raped me twice and molested me four times when I was 15 before accusing me of making him want to kill himself and cutting off contact. I told no one other than a brief crush around my age who lied more often than not, accused me of somehow giving him an STD [after mentioning something about having just made sexual contact with some other girl] and chose to keep the information to himself.

Since then, I’ve been sexually harassed by a boy who was not only expressly invited to continued attendance by school officials who preferred to keep the knowledge of three other identical incidents between themselves and the highly confused, intimidated student body, but was forced unfairly to separate himself from a most nurturing environment of enablement by being forced to go to jail for causes conveniently unspecified. After having been denounced as simultaneously non-existent and slutty [and having my breasts/prospective undergarments visually evaluated less than three feet in front of school officials in the silence of the forest] my relatives became increasingly insecure as a result of my sudden [and frankly threatening] separation from the household – for which I am entirely at fault. Oppressed beneath an atmosphere of sheer terror, my relatives simply had no choice but to assault me several times and tell me they hate me so much, I was planning to eat that one of six other $1.50 turkey T.V. dinners which you stole from the freezer so now I have to break the toaster and spill stuff, I hate you so much sometimes, I’m hurt, I’m hurt, I hope you get cancer, you should just kill yourself.

Around the beginning of spring, I began attending organized meetings with mental health counselors, the first of whom, [unimpressed by the “normal” and “positive” findings of legitimate psychological testing and evaluation, she preferred to take the word of the highly obese and charming country woman who expresses deep concern and strained love for a daughter who struggles with technical problem solving and exhibits violent, delusional tendencies – all as described in the written report offered kindly upon my last visit in May] thought it appropriate to spend an hour and a half, on the pretense of discussing social anxiety, elongating the definition of a bipolar disorder, leaning close to me when I state honestly that I am not identifying an evident direction of the discussion, and insisting that it “IS FRUSTRATING WHEN YOU’RE NOT UNDERSTANDING.” All of that, I can fairly assume, because pretending to be taking me to the doctor’s appointment that I had been attempting to organize for the last several months and having me kept in isolation for a “psyche exam” from 5:00 p.m. until 12:00 a.m. on my 17th birthday for “erratic, paranoid, violent behavior” was not sufficient to rid me of the madness that is my own self-worth, identity, and ultimately, life. My most recent therapist seems a bit more subdued about the subject and perhaps to the dismay of some black, and some white, privy to the concept of more complex shading.

Meanwhile, the likelihood that I’m going to be found currently injured by my relatives “harassment” is not enough for the courts to decide to take steps in prevention of that eventuality and despite my efforts with the Department of Human Services, as of yet I continue to reside amidst the bile of 19 physically and emotionally co-dependent cats, dogs, birds, rat, and persons.

I know that the outcome of growing up in a community whose dynamic reflects that of the oppressive, uneducated, and self-concerned demeanor of the narcissistic household in which I live results in a lot to swallow; but I also know that I deserve to be believed and regarded as deserving better in action, word, and material response. I was floored recently by the impact and significance of being told that I am believed and that my mother's behavior is not my fault during one of my recent visits to the mental health clinic by my supervisor, and to such a degree do I appreciate it that I don't believe that I will ever forget it.

For my love of metaphors,

For a ropeless man to aspire to scale Everest would be suicidal but for that he could yet divine himself such supplies. A hopeless man, on the other hand, does not intend to that which he believes impossible.

Our minds aren’t teeth; we won’t wear to the point of agony until our health fails with us because that is our nature but because cowardice is and the easiest answer to accept is that there is none in the sheer horror that denial cannot be. Chew and savor; that’s my concluding word.

[Sannah]

Hi Harapa, welcome to PC. I'm glad that you have a therapist and that it is being useful. Hope to get to know you better here.