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that which makes us, keeps us.

The Aminus inside of me, the Deomon that fights for its survival.

Writing or talking about my parents Like this is not something i am doing for pitty or attention. I wish no disgrace or dishonor to the ones who gave me life and who suffered to raise me. All glory to God for blessing me with each of them and for making me who i am. Without either of them i would not be who i am today and for that in its own, i am blessed and i am gratefull.

nonetheless, for my own progress and development. i need to put this pain onto paper, because it will burst out of me in flames if i do not. My current path of growth is exploring my Aminus, the demon behind the dark shadow self .  this is apparent in 4 stages. my father knotted me securely into level 1. and at 33 years of age the realization is eating me. over the last 7 months i have been considering suicide more than i have ever in the last 10 years. i think about having myself locked up in a mental institution because my thoughts and feelings have no connection to reality. most often i feel like i cannot even breathe. i wonder why i am forced to live in a world where i am the broken one. I feel utter anguish at the thought of me loving so deeply and leaving only destruction in its way. i feel like an autistic child that seems not to be physically expressing the need or feeling inside.

everyone that i have ever loved i have broken or hurt or damaged and no matter how hard i try i just don’t seem to be able  to quit. my insides tell me that i only ever pointed out their mistakes in relation to mine – showing that i loved them anyways despite their flaws. hoping and believing that they too loved me despite mine. But all i have ever felt was used. and my retaliation brutal. in the after math, i wish to continue as before the damage was done because i belive my intention is being displayed in my actions and words and it was not. I have made more people feel rejected and abandoned and not worthy of true love experience because of my own inability to soften and let them in. And its a cycle, no matter what level of bullshit enlightenment i think im on – i just cannot break.

the earliest memories i can recall are of me aged between 3 and 5. We lived in a municipal 2 bedroom house the size of a garden flat. there lived 5 adults and 4 children all under the age of 5. Our garden was small but it was my fathers pride and joy. one of the few things  i ever remember him being passionate about apart from little kids and books. We had all sorts of veggies growing lush and was sold of an extra R2 or R5. We had chickens but silkies so they were not for eating, just for enjoyment.

My father arrived home some afternoons before my mother or anyone and alone at the house would be when my molestation would take place. afterwards, my father and i would sit on the kitchen stairs looking out over the garden. i swear i can still feel the sun on my skin. he would drink, a lot. But he would share information with me and show me the small wonders of life. and by the time the sun was gone every night, my mother would arrive home and i would be cuddled on the couch with my chickens as my parents continued a screaming fest.

More often than none it escalated into a physical fight between them and i would watch my father smack and hit my mother with a fist. she was strong thou in her arms as she walked with crutches so frustration over missing hits compelled him to kick her legs out. once on the floor he would use his metal toe boots to step into her face, kicking her all over and spitting on her. she would fight back until she would see my looking at them. suddenly she would lie motionless on the floor while he continued his beating. she looked me straight in the eyes. he would yell out to her, worthless, shit, fucked up, good for nothing, you shouldn’t have a right to breathe. and when he sees me looking at them, he increases his violence and sputs words like you see her, she is just as good for nothing because your her mother, she is a pile of shit because she is raised by a pile of shit. useless spaces of air.

this is a memory that plays off in my head until around the time i got my period, when the visits to my room in the dark stopped. i was no longer a fun little child in his eyes anymore. the joyful pleasure i shared with my father in the garden and with the chickens gone. no more mini lectures on the small beauties of life or of books. all that was left was them and their fights, every single day. my teenage years was spent in a house with constant conflict of opinions, fuck you’s and deceit. all i had was my books. socially isolated from family and friends as is the way of abusers, all i had was my books, my school books. i have never felt like i was smart enough, beautiful enough or brave enough for my father. and i guess, for anyone who ever loved me i always felt not exactly like they loved me but rather that they found something in me that they could use. while using it, they could pretend to care but once they found what they needed elsewhere i would be discarded and left in the cold once again. this message plays out over and over for each person i have ever cared for. i have treated them like transactions. and cried with fire when afterwards i felt like one.

each level of aminus is linked to a human i care so ever deeply for. and yet they will never let me into their space again. i messed up the trust so badly.  i used them. and them cried about it. i made them feel empty and worthless. and them cried when they placed ” healthy boundaries”

 

this needs to be explored as i go thru every life event when i acted like a man but wanted to be treated like a woman. i got some work to do.

 

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