What a horrible night’s sleep. I’d felt the rising tension before going to bed and was on a bit of a downer but went to sleep easily enough (if a bit later than I’d wanted), but the dreams were just horrible. All about self-harm – thinking about it and doing it. At least that’s what I’ve remembered; I’m sure there was a lovely narrative to accompany them too.
It’s been strange since my last counselling session (Monday before last because of the bank holiday this week). I wasn’t able to think about it at the time, but I guess it’s been haunting me instead. I’d made the decision to get into some of my old diaries, knowing that there are accounts in there of what happened, and how I felt at the time. Remembering how I actually felt, not how I feel now or think I ought to have felt are very important to me. I’m not certain why. Well, it didn’t take much reading through before I found just a couple of paragraphs which expanded to fill the session.
Previously I’ve talked about how Ric was a predator, and my Dad had reminded me that there had been some confusion/discussion about his shortish relationship with a woman. The queries arose because the relationship never really went beyond a few kisses, despite giving the appearance of something stronger. That’s unusual in adults; we don’t really mess about and tend to get into the sexual side way before the 6-9 months stage. It had been mentioned that maybe he was more interested in her kids (who, by the way were my ex-step-cousins – yeah, figure that one out!) So I’ve always felt a sense of guilt that I’ve never been to the police or made an attempt to protect other people who might be at risk. So the reminder that he’d been near people I actually knew rather than the more distant strangers was rather shocking.
I was even more shocked, and literally numbed in my hands and feet when almost the first thing I blundered across in my own diaries from when I was 17 was a reference to a conversation with my eldest ex-step-sister (get used to it, I’ve had to…). I’d said that we’d “fallen out pretty badly” and she’d come back with typical directness asking if he’d been “interested” in me. At a guess I deflected that with good quality fear skills, but she went on to describe the reasoning about him with her cousins. She also said that her mum had talked to my Dad about them at the time; before I went to Amsterdam (I realise that I’m using “Amsterdam” in a way synonymous with hell and the worst of all things. It’s a lovely city and I’ve had some wonderful times there. I’ve just had some really bad ones too.)
So I left the session totally fucked in the head, went and got some codeine – took some, had a pint in a quiet corner of a pub while writing poetry. Then I tried to cycle home, taking the most arduous hilly routes home ostensibly to enjoy the hard work and the downhill glide. Unfortunately I suspect it had kicked in my self-destructive potential, as I found myself closing my eyes while free-wheeling down roads for as long as possible. Either that or I was just wasted. Which in itself is fairly self-destructive. Not good. Since then I must admit self-harm has been back in my mind. Frankly it’s just easier to cut yourself than deal with stuff. I have resisted, though I’ve given more thought to the shapes I’d cut than is healthy.
I’d concluded that I needed to talk to my ex-step-sisters’ mum, partly for some context as Ric was first a lodger with her before we all got to know him, so that’s some critical timeline stuff, but also because of knowing what he is. And I feel some responsibility to her niece and nephew. Maybe nothing happened to them, but maybe they’re like me. I don’t really know how to approach it. Clearly I hadn’t thought this all through in time because I saw three of my ex-step-sisters and their mother at my brother’s wedding last weekend. That was weird mix of pleased to see them and awful gushing whatthefuck fear. Sigh. I guess I need to just get on with it and ruin someone else’s day.
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