All my life when I am close to achieving, I have a terrible habit of undermining myself.
I am so scared of everything going wrong, that I can destroy my own efforts at happiness.
I want to break this habit, but it is so engrained in me, I really don’t why to start.
My fear has risen to the surface, now I building a future. A future with safety. A future where I have control. A control where I can make long-term plans.
This is new. I am scared, but very determined to make something of myself.
After spending years of believing I was nothing but what men decided I was. I want to make a mark on the world.
I learnt to sabotage myself when I was very young. By not crying when I was hungry or needed something, I place myself in harm’s way.
Being passive can be vital to being safe when living with violence. But destroys the will to live.
Being passive does not stop the pain. It does not stop the anger. No, they are there eating down all hope.
I was passive when young.
It did not save me.
It put me in harm’s way.
For my stepdad saw me as ideal victim.
So much of my life was wasted blaming myself for being that victim.
I still hate the word “victim”. I reject it as a description of my life.
Rather I was in harm’s way. In the way of men that chose to strip me of dignity, safety and self-respect.
My stepdad was the first, and he drip-feed me with self-hating thoughts.
I believe that he brainwashed me to learn to self-sabotage.
If I hated myself, then he will get off scot-free.
Abusers need women and girls to hate themselves. It make it a non-crime then.
It can make that nothing really happened.
Nothing of importance anyhow.
I believed that I provoked my stepdad. That I must be sex-crazed. That I must be mentally ill.
That I would do the world a favour if I killed myself.
Now this is a language that is not natural for children to believe. That degree of self-hate is put in by the brainwashing of abusers.
If I could be made to believe I made my stepdad have sex with me, then where’s the harm.
If I was proven to be mentally ill, then maybe all the pain and fear were just my imagination.
And if I killed myself, that was nothing to do with my stepdad. It would just prove that I was always unstable.
So I fall into self-hate, coz nothing else made sense.
It made no sense that my stepdad would have sex with me. It made no sense that one moment he went on about how much he loved me, and the next moment he was hurting me bad.
It made no sense that my mother said she knew, and then did nothing.
It made no sense to think I was normal, when there a fury in me. A fury that wanted to murdered my family. A fury dreamt of having a neutron bomb.
A bomb that would kill all the people and leave architecture standing.
I could not be normal. So I chose to hate myself.
At least that made some sense.
I could never make sense of hard-core porn. In my heart it will never make sense to me.
Hard-core porn taught how to hate myself. It gives me ways to self-sabotage.
When I lived with violence, I used hard-core to masturbate myself into more pain. In those moments I felt I reach a bottom. A place where I truly despised myself.
I would mastubate until I bled. I would hit myself. I would hurt myself with objects.
Maybe I was trying to force feeling into myself.
But it felt like I had made to believe so much that all sex had to be violent, that not even masturbation was safe for me.
That degree of self-hate is so damned hard to forget or recover from.
That degree of self-hate is planted by extreme male violence.
When I was at my worst was when I was prostituted.
That was a time I harm myself as a way to remember I still alive.
I could not feel, so I was careless of my body’s safety.
I became a drunk. It keep me awake. It stop some pain. It meant I did not have to care.
As men raped, beat and tortured me, my mind transforms it into what was not.
I forced myself to believe I was getting what I deserved. I was terrible person, I deserved punishment. I deserved to be in pain.
I could not see the degradation, not if I had chosen to be there.
I refused to believed I could be hated.
No, I was at great risk by not allowing in the reality.
It meant I went more and more dead inside as the violence increased.
And god did it increased.
Now, I see that time, and an aching scream grabs my heart.
Maybe my self-hate kept me safe, and save my life. For it stop me feeling the real.
I could not know the hate of those men.
Knowing now, it can sabotage my belief in hope. Now, I will see their hate and know it.
Hate that treated my body as an experiment. See we can rape her all over. See how much pain one person can take.
See she does not cry. She does act scared. It must be ok.
I see that time, and I wish I could weep.
I see that I was owned – and my rage grabs my throat.
I survive prostitution by not knowing it.
Now it will be know, it is the only way to regain that part of my life.
These days, self-sabotage is the memories of living with so much self-hate.
When I want to do things I believe in or know I may do well, I get terrified it will all go wrong.
I still believe I do not deserve success or to be happy long-term.
I have found this with starting a self-help group. It is something I so want to do. It is something I feel I may do well.
But self-sabotage crashes in.
I am terrified to make the first move. I feel I am wrong to even imagine I could help others, when I am so confused by own existence.
But, I believe the more scared I am, the more I know I really have hit a good idea.
I do self-sabotage myself, but in the end I usually conquer my terrors.