I was writing this post and lost it. It’s hard to do again.
It came with a warning. All of my posts should have them, so I never write them. You are adults. Use some sense. But this one particularly needs one.
My dad’s murderousness was not merely sadistic. It was erotic for him.
I can hardly bear to write about this.
I have memories of being sexually abused in the middle of pools of blood, in the midst of body parts. I remember having to touch parts of corpses in the course of what he wanted to do.
It’s horrifying. I cannot fathom a disrespect for human life so profound that, even after death, he had no feeling inside him, This was once a human being. I cannot fathom my dad.
But it explains some of his attitude towards me. I used to wonder why he didn’t just kill me. My mom would notice—there was that. It was also so that he could go on killing me. He could go on torturing me to unconsciousness and terrifying me with mock executions and get some of the same rush as a real death. Only he could go on doing it again. I was not like the other girls, who had the sense and the resources and the will to run away. I could not run away. I was his captive. Not physically, but mentally. I was his child. Where would I go?
I have a feeling about C that I am “stuck” in processing. I think it has to do with these memories. In the present, it seems to be a wish to hug her, to protect her, to nurture her. It is a sense of affection in warmth. The feeling from the past is that also, but more problematicaly I think it is the wish to gather a body back together: to nurture and protect someone who no longer has a body to keep together. It is in pieces.
It makes me feel torn apart inside, because I wanted to live. My dad was torturing in the midst of death, but I wanted to live. I felt worthless—these girls he killed were so worthless to him, he could not even show respect for the fact that they had once been alive. But I was also living for them.
They kept me alive and also made me want to live. And yet they ended up dead. Some of them did. Some of them were girls I did not know.
Not everyone was like us. Not everyone cared so much or turned so emphatically to one another as a way of gaining strength. Not everyone went on caring for one another or took meaning and purpose from it.
I realize that now.
Some girls retreated into various forms of escape. Some girls resorted to various grabs at power, at using manipulation to try to control others or to at least get a sense of diversion.
There were six of us—I am counting Nadia now. She died when I was very young, but I think Grusha knew her. It may be we were not all together at one time. But we might have been. Anyway, there were six of us who insisted it was still worthwhile to be human and to care, even if we did not know each other. They all knew me.
It’s not uncommon for people to form very strong bonds during difficult times. It might be uncommon for people who have always had difficult times to have the ability to even form those bonds, to trust, or to allow themselves to care. I am not sure.
I seem to live in a world where this is not possible or where it is not desirable. One must value oneself, not others. One must not derive value from the value others place on us. One must be independent. And yet without these girls I feel I do not know who I am. I certainly feel no sense of meaning. I cannot live for myself. Without them, I don’t even feel I know who I am.