The title of this blog is a question I was asked by my mother. Do I want anything from my father’s estate? I am not sure what is left, and if I take something is it really going to make me feel good? I am not certain yet. I am debating in my soul. Not just my head or heart, but this goes soul deep.
At times people ask for more information on what it is to be a Person with Disabilities, and I will give it. A request came my way for more information on abuse for women with disabilities, they wanted a personal story. I probably should have linked them to this blog, citing it as a resource chock full of detail. Instead, I posted an account of abuse, spanning my birth on through the beginning of this year.
I began to cry afterwards. I am having one of those days. I couldn’t sleep, I woke once an hour, and not always because of my own pain. I forgot that I could take pain medicine, the cost of the fight to obtain them, and had to give myself permission. So, I sat here sobbing away while sharing, for the greater good, a chunk of my soul. An injured bit.
William was destructive last night too, triggering more of my emotional response. He broke the mini blinds that the apartment complex requires via the lease, he then came over and tried to claw off a chunk of my breast. It turned out he hit my nipple but I couldn’t tell. It hurts badly, and yet this time I did not smack him. I instead hissed like an angry cat and he fled.
My person is also frustrated with me. I cannot stop snarling today. I just want to shrivel up and not exist. There is too much pain. It is too big and I refuse to subject myself to it, yet I cannot escape it without death and that means of course that I must endure. When I read novels they rarely mention the challenge of endurance when in pain.
I know too few authors are subject to disability to understand the complexities. Still, sometimes they get it right, and not always through the understanding that comes with experience. Sometimes, they may be empathic, or just those with massive amounts of commonsense.
I will likely write more later, but, I feel my father’s hands stroking my hair, fondling my body. I can hear his voice telling me how no one else gets to touch me but him or I will go to hell. I can feel the bile in my throat as he degrades me, breaks me, and I do not know how to st it.
This is a side effect of the PTSD, but I can see the reality this time. Still, the sensation is painful, my body is in agony already, why does my mind follow? Why am I haunted? Will it get worse if I do accept something from his estate? What if that something could help me with my own disability?
I am still not sure I have accepted that I had an effect on his last years of life even if neither of us knew it. I hate him, at times. Not just a minor loathing but a secret hope that he goes and burns in his own hell. Then again, it is possible that he did live in hell for a long time. A slow burning death, a bad heart.
Do I have a bad heart? No, but I work at it. I work at having a pure mind and soul, things he put into my head still mocking me when I fail. I work too to keep my body healthy. He took so much from me. Can I take from him? I really do not know.
Textual Fury 