I go out into the world, and don’t let anyone into my flat.
This is coz I am terrified of tidying my flat. I am not lazy, I am scared until I am frozen. Only the way out of that freeze, is when I am sick and sick.
Outside my flat, I like order and I like to appear that I not losing control.
But I lose my facade when I attempt to tidy. I don’t mean housework, I mean the basis of making a comfortable home.
It triggers so much stuff. It triggers so much self-hate.
It seems to me that my living space is a reflection of the parts of me that if others knew then they would be right to hate me.
I never learnt “housework” from my mother.
She would never let me do it as she would say –
I was too stupid to even hoover.
Although my mother beat me very rarely, it was always with household goods. She whipped me with a clothes line. She bashed me with a brush.
It was very rare, but it made me phobic of housework.
One memory I have from somewhere round I was 12, (age is very hard to know at that time of my life).
I am the doctor’s with bleeding and bruising in and round my vagina. I am in pain, I am silent, I am planning how to die.
I know the pain is my stepdad ramming his hands right up me. I know I won’t speak that he bite me there.
All I hear is my mother explaining how I fall down the stairs in my nightdress, and manage to get a broomstick poked into my vagina.
I was amazed by her blatant lie, and that the doctor believe that pile of crap.
But I was sickened when I see brooms.
One way I thought I would put off my stepdad was by living in a wreck.
He would not fuck me if he had to step over toys, papers, books to get at me.
That made sense to me. Only it never work.
But all my life I thought I could save myself from male violence by being untidy.
I did not know that men that choose to rape and torture don’t care what kind of environment it is done in.
After all, as long there is a woman or girl to fuck over, they don’t see where they are.
Often I reacted to prostitution by going “home” and destroying everything that was important to me.
I hated myself so much. I ripped up books, I destroyed tapes, I torn my posters, I smashed presents that I loved.
I was dead during the torturing and raping, but my home got all the rage, confusion and grief.
I destroyed my home, I often was made to leave because of my behaviour.
I knew I was mad. I knew I wanted a real home, but I was scared to stop and know myself.
So I vanished into a tough facade.
Now, I return to I am terrified of tidying the space that is my home.
I want to just get on without the vicious triggering that happens when I try to tidy.