The Journey of the Fairy Godmother

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Content Note: Abuse

So here we are. I’m writing a blog. I never thought I would actually do this, and certainly not about such a personal and sensitive topic. But, like I said, here we are. I don’t fully understand why I’m documenting this journey on the internet (seems foolish, tbh). I suppose I’m hoping that this blog will help someone else who has suffered at the hands of people who are supposed to love them.

The idea of the Fairy Godmother came up in my weekly therapy. I was discussing with my psychologist my need to protect the children in my life (there are 6, none of them are my biological children). But I feel an overwhelming need to make sure nothing bad happens to them, that they are safe and loved and never made to feel scared for their safety. She mentioned that I was almost like a fairy godmother, and how would the fairy godmother trope would look when “little me” was the one being protected.

So this blog is to explore that concept. How would my childhood have been different if I’d had a fairy godmother when I needed her? What would I do if I, as an adult, could go back and help myself as a child? It’s going to be a long, difficult journey, but it will be so worth it for my own sanity.

Thanks for sharing the ride,

The Fairy Godmother

xxx

The Mystery of the Muscle Flowers

Again, sorry for the complete radio silence. A lot has happened. I’ve moved cities (again), which means I’ve had to give up my psychologist. My court date is now soon, and no longer far enough away for me to not stress about it. There’s been increased stress on my relationship, partly because of me and partly because of my partner. More importantly, I’ve been playing the Harry Potter game and am furious that to be released from Devil’s Snare you have to tug at the fucking vines! No bitch! You need to relax!

Anyway, I’ve been having more dreams lately and it seems I’m becoming less able to analyse them, so any help is appreciated.

About a week ago I had a dream. I was in my family home, in the kitchen and there was a huge, gaping wound in my forearm. It gives me chills just thinking about it. Initially I thought it was just a massive pus pocket/system underneath the skin and replacing the muscle, but as I looked at it I realised it was flowers furling and unfurling underneath my skin. I could see and feel them moving in my body, replacing the tissues that should have been there.

My current thinking is that this relates to the abuse I’ve suffered (the wound) and I’ve always perceived it as a really awful “infection” in my life (the pus) but actually I’ve used it to build resistance and make myself as strong as I can be (the flowers). Or it could be something completely different.

The other dream I had was last night. I dreamt that my high school boyfriend, Tan* and I were meeting up again. At some point Tan swapped with my current partner Andrew*. Tan/Andrew went to the UK, and while he was there, he was ignoring me. I was texting him and checking the time difference to make sure it wasn’t the middle of the night when I was calling, but while he was there he was ignoring me and messaging other women. At one point, Tan/Andrew said to me, “Maybe we should just have a break for this trip.” and it broke my heart, a little bit in real life too. I don’t trust my partner, and he has given me a bunch of reasons not to, so I guess this dream is related to that.

Maybe I’m just paranoid. I don’t know. I do want to explore my flower dream more, because whenever I think about it, it gives me a funny feeling in my stomach that I can’t explain.

On issues of forgiveness and niceties

Content note: sexual and emotional abuse; profanity

So sorry for the radio silence. I’ve had a huge few months with travel, deaths and relationship drama.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all.

I’m currently visiting my family, who do not know about the years of sexual abuse I suffered at the hands of a family member. I hate coming back to the same place where I was raped hundreds – If not thousands – of times.

Yesterday, my stepfather suggested to me that I be more forgiving and kind to my rapist. Now, bearing in mind that he doesn’t know about the years of rape, all he knows about is the constant emotional abuse this man put me through. He has never offered an apology, nor has his behaviour changed. And yet I, his victim, am expected to forgive him because that’s just him. They are using the excuse that he has a stressful job, but he has emotionally abused me since we were teenagers.

This has made me furious. I couldn’t sleep last night because I was so angry. I was deeply hurt by the expectation that I would just forgive him when he has never, ever been nicer to me. And the fact he has raped me repeatedly makes it even worse.

A lot of people might tell me to forgive “for me”, but the issue with forgiveness is that it has to be earned, or at least requested. This narcissist delights in manipulating and controlling women, has been accused of rape multiple times, and has never acknowledged that his constant bullying is wrong.

So nah, mate, there’s no fucking way I’m going to forgive this person, no matter how closely we’re related. The best they can hope for is that I quietly cut him out of my life and break contact. No victim should ever have to feel pressured to forgive their abuser. It makes me so angry that my own mother and father are putting the same pressure the rest of society puts on victims. They never tell him to apologise or change his behaviour yet I am expected to.

Seems like a whole lot of people need to fuck right off. My forgiveness is free flowing – when you ask for it and stop abusing me. Until then, fuck off.

XXX

Content note: abuse, explicit sexual imagery

I’m using a mobile device for this post, so please excuse any poor formatting.

I had a strange and distressing dream recently. They’re always strange, and usually distressing but this one was different.

I was at my grandmother’s house with the family member who sexually abused me for 10 years. In my dream, this person and I had consensual, kinky, fucked up sex in so many ways as adults. It happened in every room, including my grandparent’s bedroom. There was always the feeling of someone there, but no one was willing to come forward about it.

This is so strange to me, because I was 4 when the abuse began and it ended when I was 14/15. At no point did I consent and as a child I really didn’t have a choice. Honestly, the reason I didn’t post this earlier is because I was so shocked that my brain would make me do this.

I’ve thought on it for about a week now, and the only explanation I have is that I’m subconsciously trying to re-write the nightmare that was my childhood. It couldn’t be so hurtful if I consented, right?

Even thinking about it now, it doesnt hurt any less. If anything, it hurts more. I’ve spent so long trying to make myself not hurt and just accept my history, but still it hurts.

I don’t have a nice wrap up to this post. Usually analysing things makes them make more sense to me and I can control my feelings. Not so in this case. The analysis makes it hurt more. It’s a bottomless pit of pain.

Sorry to be a Debbie Downer.

Here comes the big, bad wolf

Content note: Abuse

One of the most difficult things about being an adult survivor of childhood abuse is the nightmares. They’re awful. Throughout the day, I can be alert, aware and can allay my deep-seated feelings of danger. During the night my mind becomes lax. Honestly, I can count on one hand the number of “good nights sleep”s I’ve had over the last 10 years. They are so few and far between, and it’s so difficult to train the brain to defend itself when it’s time to rest.

In the last week I’ve had a few memorable nightmares. The first one was the most terrifying. I had this dream on Sunday night, which meant I was restless and exhausted already for the week ahead. Not a good start, but life can always be worse, right?

In my dream, I’m in my small, country hometown. When I was 10 my mother and stepfather built a house on a small property in the country. There is some stunning scenery around the place. It’s absolutely gorgeous to visit… but it’s the scene of my terror. Although there are beautiful, rolling hills, dense bushland and quaint cottages everywhere, I have never felt safe. It is not a sanctuary for me, although I could never begrudge someone who perceived the country sunrises as somewhat of a comfort blanket.

In my nightmare, there was an old castle that had been renovated into a night club. It was just off the road from where my childhood home stands. It looked so off next to that small country road. The old train line was rusting in the background, with beautiful earthy hills and streams all around. In reality, the morning sunshine on this patch of land makes the hills glow, and the night stars illuminate the landscape. But not in my dream. The sky was pitch black, no stars. The castle club looked brand new, jet black with flaming red wolf eyes on each of the castle towers. The steeple was lost in the sky. A sense of dread enveloped the town. No one was safe.

This castle club was owned by a pack of wolves disguised as human. It was the worst kept secret in the town, everyone had heard the rumours. If you crossed the Wolves or tried to hide, you were the dead. The Wolves claimed to be benevolent dictators in the village, but the vanishing villagers spoke to the contrary. For some reason, myself and my family had angered the Wolves. I think we had borrowed money and not been able to repay on time, but I’m not sure. All I know is that the Wolves had promised there would be no revenge, but I knew in my heart we were dead. All of us. We couldn’t run. Anyone found fleeing would die. The Wolves went so far as to not allowing villagers to lock their doors.

I took my family home in an attempt to protect them. We tried to be quiet, but we saw the Wolves sneaking up over the hill. I tried to lock the doors stealthily, but the Wolves had planted a spy in a kitchen attached to our home. They could see through the doors, the walls, the windows, the blinds. We had no privacy and no safety. And the Wolves were coming.

At this point I woke up. I didn’t finish the dream. I never do.

I spoke to my therapist about this dream and we discussed nightmare re-scripting. She helped me find the tools to practice a different scenario in my every day life so that my mind is strong, even when I am dreaming.

If I had a fairy godmother, she would have destroyed the castle. It would be a ruin. Broken. Dilapidated. Beyond repair. The bricks would be falling and crumbled, in that disgusting grey of eroded brick. It would fit; it would be beautiful in the landscape.

The more I think about this, the more I see how I am the castle. I am not new, and shiny, and painted perfectly. I’m the ruin. I’m broken. My soul is old. I crumble. I hurt. I fear. But I’m still standing. I’m strong. And I fit in my life.