Prison Diaries #2 - Inside, we carry our own truths...
Cake Wafit stood outside The Dark Side Re-education Centre, smoking her cigarette and absently employing the Smile and Nod Ruse, as PURE EVIL babbled away about something. Something to do with rehabilitating youth, and teaching them how to "take responsibility", teaching them not to "blame others" for their problems, and that they can't "use a bad history as an excuse" forever. The words all merged into a background of white noise, as other words in Cake's head rose up to overshadow them, the words of the young women she talks to, their real position on "learning to take responsibility".... is that really the problem? That these "criminals", these "delinquent youth" don't know how to take responsibility for things? That they want to make excuses? Let's listen in to what Cake was thinking about, the conversation she's recalling, and see:
"The worst night of my life was when somebody told me it wasn't my fault. Oh, I don't mean I'd never heard it before, or I never thought of it before, that's not the case at all. No, quite the opposite, people say it to me all the time. 'It's not your fault your family was fucked up, it's not your fault you got raped, it's not your fault you have no one, it's not your fault you were so unhappy.' People say it over and over, they say it and the words blossom from their mouths with no effort, no weight, no consciousness. It's like saying 'fine', when someone says 'how are you?'. It's automatic:
'I was sexually abused'. 'It's not your fault.'
Then I say 'I know it's not', everyone nods meaningfully, and we can all go on our merry way, sure of the fact that what was supposed to be said, got said. I guess we're all supposed to feel better. 'Oh good, you know it's not your fault, I told you it's not your fault, so now you'll stop being bad. I guess you're gonna be fine now.' Fine.
Except it's bullshit, it's all a raging pile of bullshit.
'It's not your fault'.
'I know it's not. For a long time I thought it was my fault, but now I know it isn't. Wasn't. Whatever.'
Bullshit. I've never known anything of the kind. It is my fault, it is totally my fault. There is something wrong with *me*, inside, I know it. I keep it a secret. The biggest effort of my life is making sure no one else figures it out, but I know it. There's something wrong with me, there always has been. That's why my childhood upset me so much, when it really wasn't that bad. That's why everyone always leaves me. That's why everyone likes me until I show them the real me and then they never treat me the same way again. It's because of me. There's something wrong with me.
It's my fault. It's my fault that I'm fucked up inside, and people always realize it eventually and they run to save themselves. Who could blame them? It must be such a nasty shock, realizing this person they thought was so okay, so cool, is really totally pathetic and not someone you want to be around. They must feel tricked, when you think about it. But they all figure it out in the end. Although it goes against all the cardinal rules of social work, therapy - all that crap - to admit it, the basic fact is that sometimes it IS your fault and I know it's mine. I'm too fucked up to be lovable. People start to love me but then they stop. They realize that they didn't know what they were buying into, it's just a matter of time.
I could stop it, I know I could. I could just pretend forever, with everyone. I could never tell them how I really feel, I could never tell them about the nights that I just want to cut my arms open, I could never tell them when I feel like I'm dying. Then they wouldn't know and they'd keep thinking I'm so together, and they wouldn't realize what a fuck up I really am. And they wouldn't leave. But I'm stupid, so stupid, because I cling to this belief that love and intimacy are supposed to be about being truthful, that if I don't tell them what's really in my heart then we're not really *close*, and then I'd know for sure that I'm the reason I feel so far away from it all. So then that'd be my fault too. If my relationship makes me feel empty, it's because I won't take the risks, it's because I won't open up. I tell myself I'm a self-fulfilling prophecy. And I don't want it to fail. So I take a deep, wavering, terrified breath and I tell them who I really am. I tell myself I'm chickenshit if I don't and that it'll be my fault if I'm unhappy, because I didn't try. So I tell them, even though I'm scared. And they see me for what I am, and they cannot stand the feeling of death and despair that is being with me, and they have to go. To save themselves from being trapped in my skull, my world, with me. It's a horrible place, I know. I wouldn't choose to be in it if I lived in a different world, one where things were happy or sad, exciting or boring, interesting or dull. But that's not mine, mine is just a long dark night of emptiness and even I can't stand the echo. It just goes on and on and on. And as it starts to ring in their ears too, they start to realize that coming home to me feels like death, like they're being pulled down into an abyss they didn't create and don't know the way out of either. So they have to go, they leave to find other people, live people, people who breathe and feel and experience and have meaning. I would go too, if I could.
But don't tell me it's not my fault, because it is. It's the death that I carry with me, it's the smell of decay and the stillness and the soullessness of my life, the never-ending shades of grey. And I am that person, the one who makes everyone have to go to save themselves, because I'm fucked up. Because there's something wrong with me. Doctors tell me I have a mental illness, and that's 'not my fault', but inside I know I've really described it in a way that makes me sound sick. Because on some level I want them to say there's something wrong with me. Then maybe they'll give me drugs, they'll give me reasons, they'll give me absolution. I know the right ways to say things, even when I'm trying not to. But I know I'm hoping so hard for a reason, just to explain it all, to make it 'not my fault'. So I know I'm lying even when I'm trying to tell the truth. When I don't say it the way they need to hear it they send me away thinking "there's nothing really wrong with her, she's just a complainer". So then I know that's my fault too.
But I was talking about the worst night of my life. The worst night of my life was when someone told me it wasn't my fault, someone in my family, someone who'd always said it was. Finally, this one night, they said, "It's not your fault. It was as bad as you thought. I would have done the same things you did, if I were you. You're not crazy. It really was that bad." You'd think that would have made me feel better, huh? They always say it'll make you feel better, if you really believe it's not your fault. Well, for that night, I really did believe it wasn't my fault and it nearly killed me. I cried and cried and cried and felt like I was left with nothing. If it wasn't my fault, if I'm not crazy, if it was really that bad, then that meant I really did have this terrible life. And there was no buffer between me and it. And I've never been making any of it up. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? How do I protect myself from that? I just curled up in a ball and sobbed and felt lost and scared and didn't know what to do. How do you deal with it if it's really real? I never felt so much grief in my life. I thought I'd never stop crying and all I wanted was that terrible ache in my chest to go away. Like I said, worst night of my life.
It wore off, eventually. I felt raw for a while, but soon enough my pieces came back together. I started to realize that the person who told me that, the person who said it really was that bad, was pretty caught up in how I was feeling that night. I'm good at that, I'm good at painting emotion pictures and painting you into them. Well, I did it that night, and I painted that person in, and, inside my picture, they saw through my eyes. So they agreed with me, in that moment. But that doesn't mean either of our perceptions were right, it was just the intensity of what we were feeling right then. But it wore off, over time. And I can still see how people leave once they get to know me, and how I always end up alone, and how, deep down, there really is something wrong with me, I just really wanted to believe it was something else. Maybe there was a reason, once, but it doesn't matter anymore because what's broke is broke, and I'm definitely fucking broken.
Anyway, so people say 'it's not your fault' and I just feel worse because I feel like I've tricked them. And I don't wanna have to argue with them and prove to them that it is me, that I'm the fucked one now. What's the point? They just use it as proof that I really am fucked up in how I think, but just in the way they say I am, not in the way I say I am. They say I'm fucked up because I believe it's my fault, I say I'm fucked up and that's the reason it's my fault. And what the hell difference does it make? Fucked up is fucked up.
'It's not your fault'. I fucking hate it when people say that."
'Yup', thought Cake, as she ground out her cigarette and flashed a tight smile at the sanctimonious PURE EVIL still nattering on about what's wrong with "youth today". 'You've sure figured out what's wrong with all these bad girls, you've got it all worked out. It's that they don't know how to take any fuckin' responsibility.'
Cake went home to stare at the wall. Crowbar looked for things to smash. They couldn't even talk to each other.
"The worst night of my life was when somebody told me it wasn't my fault. Oh, I don't mean I'd never heard it before, or I never thought of it before, that's not the case at all. No, quite the opposite, people say it to me all the time. 'It's not your fault your family was fucked up, it's not your fault you got raped, it's not your fault you have no one, it's not your fault you were so unhappy.' People say it over and over, they say it and the words blossom from their mouths with no effort, no weight, no consciousness. It's like saying 'fine', when someone says 'how are you?'. It's automatic:
'I was sexually abused'. 'It's not your fault.'
Then I say 'I know it's not', everyone nods meaningfully, and we can all go on our merry way, sure of the fact that what was supposed to be said, got said. I guess we're all supposed to feel better. 'Oh good, you know it's not your fault, I told you it's not your fault, so now you'll stop being bad. I guess you're gonna be fine now.' Fine.
Except it's bullshit, it's all a raging pile of bullshit.
'It's not your fault'.
'I know it's not. For a long time I thought it was my fault, but now I know it isn't. Wasn't. Whatever.'
Bullshit. I've never known anything of the kind. It is my fault, it is totally my fault. There is something wrong with *me*, inside, I know it. I keep it a secret. The biggest effort of my life is making sure no one else figures it out, but I know it. There's something wrong with me, there always has been. That's why my childhood upset me so much, when it really wasn't that bad. That's why everyone always leaves me. That's why everyone likes me until I show them the real me and then they never treat me the same way again. It's because of me. There's something wrong with me.
It's my fault. It's my fault that I'm fucked up inside, and people always realize it eventually and they run to save themselves. Who could blame them? It must be such a nasty shock, realizing this person they thought was so okay, so cool, is really totally pathetic and not someone you want to be around. They must feel tricked, when you think about it. But they all figure it out in the end. Although it goes against all the cardinal rules of social work, therapy - all that crap - to admit it, the basic fact is that sometimes it IS your fault and I know it's mine. I'm too fucked up to be lovable. People start to love me but then they stop. They realize that they didn't know what they were buying into, it's just a matter of time.
I could stop it, I know I could. I could just pretend forever, with everyone. I could never tell them how I really feel, I could never tell them about the nights that I just want to cut my arms open, I could never tell them when I feel like I'm dying. Then they wouldn't know and they'd keep thinking I'm so together, and they wouldn't realize what a fuck up I really am. And they wouldn't leave. But I'm stupid, so stupid, because I cling to this belief that love and intimacy are supposed to be about being truthful, that if I don't tell them what's really in my heart then we're not really *close*, and then I'd know for sure that I'm the reason I feel so far away from it all. So then that'd be my fault too. If my relationship makes me feel empty, it's because I won't take the risks, it's because I won't open up. I tell myself I'm a self-fulfilling prophecy. And I don't want it to fail. So I take a deep, wavering, terrified breath and I tell them who I really am. I tell myself I'm chickenshit if I don't and that it'll be my fault if I'm unhappy, because I didn't try. So I tell them, even though I'm scared. And they see me for what I am, and they cannot stand the feeling of death and despair that is being with me, and they have to go. To save themselves from being trapped in my skull, my world, with me. It's a horrible place, I know. I wouldn't choose to be in it if I lived in a different world, one where things were happy or sad, exciting or boring, interesting or dull. But that's not mine, mine is just a long dark night of emptiness and even I can't stand the echo. It just goes on and on and on. And as it starts to ring in their ears too, they start to realize that coming home to me feels like death, like they're being pulled down into an abyss they didn't create and don't know the way out of either. So they have to go, they leave to find other people, live people, people who breathe and feel and experience and have meaning. I would go too, if I could.
But don't tell me it's not my fault, because it is. It's the death that I carry with me, it's the smell of decay and the stillness and the soullessness of my life, the never-ending shades of grey. And I am that person, the one who makes everyone have to go to save themselves, because I'm fucked up. Because there's something wrong with me. Doctors tell me I have a mental illness, and that's 'not my fault', but inside I know I've really described it in a way that makes me sound sick. Because on some level I want them to say there's something wrong with me. Then maybe they'll give me drugs, they'll give me reasons, they'll give me absolution. I know the right ways to say things, even when I'm trying not to. But I know I'm hoping so hard for a reason, just to explain it all, to make it 'not my fault'. So I know I'm lying even when I'm trying to tell the truth. When I don't say it the way they need to hear it they send me away thinking "there's nothing really wrong with her, she's just a complainer". So then I know that's my fault too.
But I was talking about the worst night of my life. The worst night of my life was when someone told me it wasn't my fault, someone in my family, someone who'd always said it was. Finally, this one night, they said, "It's not your fault. It was as bad as you thought. I would have done the same things you did, if I were you. You're not crazy. It really was that bad." You'd think that would have made me feel better, huh? They always say it'll make you feel better, if you really believe it's not your fault. Well, for that night, I really did believe it wasn't my fault and it nearly killed me. I cried and cried and cried and felt like I was left with nothing. If it wasn't my fault, if I'm not crazy, if it was really that bad, then that meant I really did have this terrible life. And there was no buffer between me and it. And I've never been making any of it up. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? How do I protect myself from that? I just curled up in a ball and sobbed and felt lost and scared and didn't know what to do. How do you deal with it if it's really real? I never felt so much grief in my life. I thought I'd never stop crying and all I wanted was that terrible ache in my chest to go away. Like I said, worst night of my life.
It wore off, eventually. I felt raw for a while, but soon enough my pieces came back together. I started to realize that the person who told me that, the person who said it really was that bad, was pretty caught up in how I was feeling that night. I'm good at that, I'm good at painting emotion pictures and painting you into them. Well, I did it that night, and I painted that person in, and, inside my picture, they saw through my eyes. So they agreed with me, in that moment. But that doesn't mean either of our perceptions were right, it was just the intensity of what we were feeling right then. But it wore off, over time. And I can still see how people leave once they get to know me, and how I always end up alone, and how, deep down, there really is something wrong with me, I just really wanted to believe it was something else. Maybe there was a reason, once, but it doesn't matter anymore because what's broke is broke, and I'm definitely fucking broken.
Anyway, so people say 'it's not your fault' and I just feel worse because I feel like I've tricked them. And I don't wanna have to argue with them and prove to them that it is me, that I'm the fucked one now. What's the point? They just use it as proof that I really am fucked up in how I think, but just in the way they say I am, not in the way I say I am. They say I'm fucked up because I believe it's my fault, I say I'm fucked up and that's the reason it's my fault. And what the hell difference does it make? Fucked up is fucked up.
'It's not your fault'. I fucking hate it when people say that."
'Yup', thought Cake, as she ground out her cigarette and flashed a tight smile at the sanctimonious PURE EVIL still nattering on about what's wrong with "youth today". 'You've sure figured out what's wrong with all these bad girls, you've got it all worked out. It's that they don't know how to take any fuckin' responsibility.'
Cake went home to stare at the wall. Crowbar looked for things to smash. They couldn't even talk to each other.
posted by Crowbar at 11:54 p.m.
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