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.


2 responses to “Facade

  1. Things that are associated with particular traumatic events in our lives often set triggers to remind us of the pain we’ve gone through during the traumatic events.

    For examples, some women may be afraid of sounds of footsteps, the smell of a particular food or drink or perfume, hearing a particular music, or the name of a song, etc; all this because these things are/were connected to traumatic events, painful experiences they have gone through or a sexual abuser they have known in their lives.

    I understand why you are so afraid of tidying, Rebecca. This is so linked to the pain you have gone through during childhood…


  2. This post reminds me of something I would read in a book– I can really see what is happening and imagine it. You’re a good writer.


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