I don’t know how to go on. Not a single day without conflict. The unwillingness, to deal with the stuff that hurts.
Years ago, when I was hurting, I had this idea of “sacrificing” myself for humanity, if I would ever reach a point where I felt it was too much.
That point has been reached many times over. The blaming that is there. The refusal to talk. The patient explaining, that turns desperate, and then my way of killing myself – the booze. I drink till I don’t exist anymore. It’s not a good solution, cause it only knocks me out for some hours, and then the pain starts all over again, increased by the freaked out behavior and pain I’ve exposed others to in my oblivion. The pain that I’ve inflicted on myself, causing my insides to bleed.
And there they are. The dysfunctional relations. The people who claim to “love” me, while they do the most horrible hostile acts. The non-solidarity from the feminist scene in Finland. I still don’t understand how it’s possible.
I don’t know how to live. And I don’t know how to kill myself properly. I’m in deep shit.
I should probably read some Andrea Dworkin. I’ve been having Letters From A War-Zone for some time now. The quotes she picks usually speak to me.
In legend there is relief from the enemy,
sorrow is turned into gladness, mourning
In life, only some of this is possible.
— E.M. Broner, A Weave of Women
And what she speaks of in the introduction to the book:
“These essays and speeches present a political point of view, an analysis, information, arguments, that are censored out of the Amerikan press by the Amerikan press to protect the pornographers and to punish me for getting way out of line. I am, of course, a politically dissident writer but by virtue of gender I am a second-class politically dissident writer. That means that I can be erased, maligned, ridiculed in violent and abusive language, and kept from speaking in my own voice by people pretending to stand for freedom of speech. It also means that every misogynist stereotype can be invoked to justify the exclusion, the financial punishment, the contempt, the forced exile from published debate. The fact is that these essays and speeches speak for and to vast numbers of women condemned to silence by this same misogyny, this same sadistic self-righteousness, this same callous disregard for human rights and human dignity. I do know, of course, that I am not supposed to keep on writing. One is supposed to disappear as a writer. I have not. I hope that I will not. I know that some other people share the same hope; and I take this opportunity to thank them for the help they have given me over this decade of trying — as I said earlier — to communicate and to survive, as a writer and as a woman; the two are one for me.” — Andrea Dworkin, 1987
I can’t take it anymore. I want healing relations where it’s possible to speak of the things that hurt. Where there’s a willingness to talk things through.
It was just too much for me. The other day. Going to a polyamory meeting, and there, of course, there are people who have supported hatred and exclusion. Saying: Yes, it’s bad at the social centre. They don’t want to talk about anything. I will leave.
And not willing to look at their own actions. It’s always “someone else”. The talks about what have happened will always come “later”. Sometimes served with “I love you”.
Three of them agreed on talking about the exclusion on the forum related to this blog. I don’t really believe them. It comes from an experience background I have. “I’m not really involved in this” “Sure. But, let’s talk about it later” and “You have our love and support.” And then most often what follows is – nothing.
I’m grateful my friend (p) was there. If I wouldn’t have her, there would be no sanity to be found. No real support. Through her I know what love is.
I know there are things – people – that I can be grateful for. I need to find more. So there can be an end to the hateful input that causes these disturbing rushes of self-hatred in me. Violent thoughts of hurting myself. The “wanting to die”.
Where are the people who want to communicate? Where are the people who want something different?