When I was very small I was smaller than I realized. Looking back I was a runt- and usually nature would have taken care of me…it did not. My body has fought and even now fights. First it fought for my health- 3lbs at birth and it fought. Then it fought against those that would harm me- abuse is the most common history in my story. Now- it fights against the thought of a very calming rest taken after a fast decision. I am beginning to think that human nature is war…war to others in regard to fears of what we see reflected into ourselves. It makes perfect sense that I am my own army and executioner.

As a child I would pray for my father’s death. I remember wanting to throw children against the wall the way he did me whenever they would spout- “at least you have a father”.

My mother was a weak human who told lies in her body language- lies that she was an independent woman who would sooner cut a mans neck than deal with someone who was abusive- this ideal began and ended with her- never extending to me…her child.

I prayed for his death…it never came.

I know what the sound of ice cubes hitting whiskey sounds like- it sounds like playing with my toys and not raising my head when he entered my room. It sounded like my mathematical education started with counting how many “Nasty sodas” he had before I needed to go to my room and be quiet. Don’t look up…nod and shrug…answer but don’t cry. Don’t breathe.

A warzone smells like whiskey and chewing tobacco spit in my face as he yells and my head hits the wall- “I…I’m sorry…I…..”- I never did anything wrong but you could have fooled me into believing I was the most vile and disgusting creature to exist. All his anger against my mother- her family- the bills….it all poured out when I would walk or sit…cry and it was worse.

I am sure I am to fault for my life- because at 31 I can not still possibly blame what happened right? But then tell me why I have to sit facing everyone in a restaurant…I have to know all exits…where was that man walking to?….why did he grab his child like that….what was that sound…why did they put their glass down like that?….why are you breathing like that…why are you looking at me….why is it hot…why is it small…why was I always…always so small?

I remember pulling large chunks of my hair out and not feeling anything but the warm comforting blood trickle down my forehead as my aunt-Patty….carried me into the bathroom at my grandmother’s house….”Why did you do that?!”—I shrugged and promised it did not hurt.

Nothing hurt…my perception of pain is so fucked up that I self harmed for years to feel and control everything….even now I enjoy getting fucked so hard you might question if it is rape- I just want to feel it….I need to feel it and finally….only….control it…..so please hurt me….but only at my request.

I prefer rum to whisky. I prefer my own death to his now. I prefer sleep to awake. I prefer music to silence. I prefer night to day. I prefer you over me…I prefer.

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