May 31st 2018

I go cold. I didn’t think I’d have to return to these memories. They’ve been haunting me for years, breathing down my neck. Felt like running on treadmill, trying to get away but not getting rid of it. And now it got triggered by watching a trauma survivor put words to her experience and woosh. Tears welling up. I rarely cry. I’m so emotionally disconnected from myself. When I do it’s always sudden.

The flashback of being robbed of self-determination. Being put through physical and mental torture. Torture. Cries and pleading falling on deaf ears. Mum blocking my dad’s attempts at intervening. Eventually he zones out and mutes it. It becomes a part of life. The worst thing is… when your trauma is so over the top that you’ve never come across anyone speaking of it and you lack the outlet and ability to frame the experiences. Every time I think about it, I turn away because it’s so much. So dense. I’ve been going to therapy for 2 years and I still haven’t gone into it except for a few times broaching it. I guess I wasn’t ready until now. It’s times like this I turn on myself. Become frustrated and angry with myself for not being able to understand it or conceptualize it. I feel like a prisoner to my past. What I hate most about these memories, these clusters that ran for a good ten years at the very least, is that suicide is always around the corner. That’s another reason why I had to dissociate and disconnect. I wasn’t capable of digesting and processing it all and that’d cause my psyche to overload and crash. Suicide then was just a power button on a computer that’s completely froze and the mouse isn’t working so you’re like fuck this.

Talking or writing about it conjures the worst feelings of helplessness and hopelessness in me. It feels like trying to empty the ocean with a spoon. A tea spoon.

Thank God words are free

I counted the posts I’ve written on my (WordPress) blog and it’s 1003! By contrast, last year I wrote 187 (including December).

This year I’ve written more than I have in the 3 years prior, combined. The sum total of posts is 1990. Been writing since March 2014.

This year has been extremely intense and full of personal revelation. Writing was my way of keeping grounded in the prevailing darkness as well as saving the nuggets of wisdom and epiphanies that’d come to me through intuitive downloads. It’s extremely fleeting so I rush to pen it down. It gives my otherwise very otherworldly and vague journey some sort of dimension. It’s so easy to think you’re stuck in these initiation processes that are deeply archetypal and transformative, and yet feel so stagnant. Writing kept me afloat and kept obsessive thoughts at bay as I had to focus my all on inner listening and receiving these mighty truths and revelations.

Not to mention that before the precipitation of the wave of revelations, I’d gestate dark rain clouds in me, heavy and angry and with menacing thunder looming around me. But I had to hold it together and resist the overwhelming urge to just bolt, to just break up the continuity and run for cover. I couldn’t because I’ve learnt that there’s nowhere to run but to Allaah. It’s been a game of elimination that led me to this year. I had to live through the dissolution of my mental constructs of the world and life, and go deeper and deeper into my soul for every time.

Everything I know is a deep inner knowing, not an intellectual property. Thoughts are feeble. They really are. Anyway, writing has enabled me to interject the truth in these hollow words that people have forgotten once meant something, once were vessels for an inner experience. Most people’s psyche are ancient ruins, or worse. Dilapidated constructs with no life. I’ve always hated that about society so much so that I rarely ask people questions anymore because I know they either will cover the truth or they’re covered from the truth. Words mean nothing and conveys nothing.

Path of abundance

I realize, the people who demanded to understand me but when I picked myself apart they never ceased their cynicism – they never wanted to know me, they wanted to control me. They felt threatened by the unknown encapsulated in my idiosyncrasies and peculiar way of being that wasn’t like anything they had ever encountered – and conquered. I see now that they wanted to disarm me as if I was a bomb. I understand now, in hindsight, why they grew increasingly frustrated and distrustful of me the more I revealed of myself. Goodness. And here I’ve spent years steeped in my internalizations that I’m incredibly and exceedingly confusing and my enigma is frustrating. I really did feel guilty all these years. I kept to my shallows for fear of drowning people, all the while being bewildered by what was so confounding about me. I never hide anything, I’m absolutely consistent all the way through on a cellular level, and I have no interpersonal problems.

Sigh. Double and triple sigh. I’m done explaining anything. If you get me you get me, if you don’t, hey can’t catch em all.

Thought in process ✍️

Our primary language is vulnerability, to show our primary reality which is emotions. This is the case until we have a decent enough a grasp about the realities outside ourselves through verbal language in which space can be distorted through ego to identify ourselves with illusions or a grandiose fantasy.

When our verbal communication is disconnected from our primal self, we interpolate the unconscious energy in our bodies into the external reality ( object relations theory). This either dehumanizes others (through superimposing distortions on their reality as in projections, manipulation, passive aggression, gaslighting etc) or dehumanizes self (through displacing the self at the behest of external demands or requests, as in introjection, internalizing, identification etc).

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