Dissociatedbi - This Blog Is My Therapist's Idea

The deep ache in my chest when I hear that family members who claim to love me are traveling to visit my trafficker (mom).

The degree to which I wish she would just fucking die already.

iSmashFizzle and drthema on twitter

“why do you have a gap in your resume” idk why is there a gap in your staff. worry about that

I don't generally do a whole lot of graphic trauma dumping in therapy anymore because I'm usually trying to ~figure things out~ and ~implement systems to help me live~ and talking about horrific shit doesn't necessarily help me do that.

But today I definitely spent half an hour talking in detail about some of the injuries I received at the hands of my stepfather and mother and Woo Boy did my therapist have some Looks™ about it. She definitely corrected it right away but a few times I caught her being like 😬👀, and I hate it but at the same time it's validating as fuck.

Like yeah, therapist, it's fucking cringe inducing what they did to me. It was bad. It was, in fact, ~very bad~.

Idk it's been a hard two days guys. But I'm out here surviving it.

That trauma survivor feeling when you wake up from a nightmare that was a memory and it fucking clings to your bones like a maladaptive koala

Recently I keep thinking about how I wasn't allowed to clean myself properly as a child. My mother was obsessed with ridiculing me for my general hygiene making her look bad, but didn't allow me to condition my hair or moisturize my face or use soap on certain areas of my body. Like why? If you're so obsessed with how I look, why are you trying to make me look bad?

her

when the purple faded from her hair she said she liked the way it looked like the ocean the way her lover said her eyes looked in the sunlight; like the ocean the way she felt when her feet were pulled gently, strongly, underneath the sand; by the ocean the way the salt chapped her lips when she overstayed her welcome with the ocean when she said she liked the faded color, the grey green blue- the memories of purple chemicals breaking down the keratin of herself remade, brittle and neon and defiant- she meant because she was seaweed all along grey green blue floating dead in the ocean washed up, sticky in the foam on dry land honest in death smelling of the ocean

R.M. Rilke, The Man Watching // Euripides, An Oresteia (trans. Anne Carson) // Oscar Wilde // Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life // @bitsbyt3s // Mary MacLane, "January 20", The Story of Mary MacLane // Trista Mateer // see 4 // @kafk-a // Olivia Laing, "Loneliness: coping with the gap where friends used to be"