Bermuda's Memories - Overflow Journal 1

[Armee]

Bermuda,

I'm glad you explained more, what you meant by being fine, until you're forced to be the version that was not fine temporarily by being blindsided by unexpected questions. I relate to that too. I can't be blindsided like that. I freeze as well. Forget things I know and should know. And then the memory is just erased for good.

It sounds like you've been through so much pain and deserve to be allowed to move on without unexpectedly and uninvitedly being pushed back to the past and the legacy of your family.

Onward and upward. 

[Bermuda]

Thank you for your words. It really means a lit to me to just know that someone in the world understands. 

[Bermuda]

Trigger warning on this post: Death/Self harm

I had a dream last night. It was long and vivid.

I had a friend many years ago, when I was still physically in a bad place. He was too. He was like me, it was bad luck for him. He was a great kind, caring, and intelligent person who just had a lot of bad luck.

In my dream, we we had a romantic encounter. It was loving, caring... Toward the end of the dream we were sitting with a group of people, and I had my head rested on his shoulder, when someone else (female) came over and took him by his hand and walked him away.

I woke up, and thought about what he was up to, but then remembered that after I left trying to find my escape, that he shot himself.

He is one of three people I know who did that, but somehow I feel like I should have known. That we could have escaped together.

[Armee]

Bermuda,

I'm really sorry for the loss of your friend. Having a dream of deep connection to him and then him being led out of your life must have brought up so many difficult emotions. As hard as it was, maybe it's also a gift to find that connection to him in your dreams?

It's pretty common with suicide to feel like there's something you could have done to save your loved ones and all of us who have lost people this way wish that were true.

I remember early in therapy my therapist trying to get me to do the "loving kindness" meditation while picturing people I love. It includes a line "May you be safe from inner and outer harm." That line tore me up and we had to excise it from the practice because I just couldn't tolerate at the time the idea that I had no control over someone's inner harm. The "may you be" took all control from me and I fought that with every ounce of my brain and body.

But, even with my kids...I don't have that kind of power to keep them safe from harming themselves. All I can do is love them, get them support, and nourish a strong connection with them. Living in the fear they might kill themselves hampers that connection.

Eventually I found I could let go of my false sense of control and return that line to the meditation. "May you be safe from inner and outer harm." I feel myself giving them a big warm hug now when I think that.

I wish it turned out different for you and your friend, that you could have whisked him off to safety, and stayed so connected. It's a beautiful loving thought and dream to have.

[Bermuda]

Sometimes little things cause my internal emotional response to spiral out of control. I am going to sound like a nagging housewife for a moment, but that's life.

My partner can be extremely inconsiderate. Since we started dating ten years ago there has been an ongoing issue. It's not a huge issue. I am small. I am very small. He would put the shower head too high so I can't reach it, hang the towels where I can't reach them, expect me to jump or climb to get them. I would love to say that after ten years he doesn't do that, but he does. Today he reached into the top of the pantry, the shelves that I cannot even see let alone reach, and pulled out 2kg of rice. He says, "Look, we do have rice!" ...And then he put the rice back in the place he found it. I had to improvise earlier this week even though I could have sworn that I had recently bought rice. I replied with, "Why is it way up there??" and he said, "Well, not everything can be visible at all times." I went away to fume for a minute, returned and preceded to take a chair to the pantry, climb up there in my third trimester of pregnancy. I pulled everything out, shockingly found many more hidden food items, and then I put them back. Since I cook, I put them on shelves that I can reach, in places where I can see.

Now, I'm sure that sounds petty. He just looked on and said, "You look angry." ...I said I was very angry, and that he constantly says and does things that are extremely inconsiderate. ...That was the whole discussion about it.

Since then, my brain just plummets into all the terrible places it's been before. The big T's. The feeling of being uncared for, unloved, feeling like I've never been loved or cared for in my life. The emptiness, and the helplessness. The feeling that I have no choice. I feel small.

I feel small.

But I will say nothing. I will do nothing. I will jump to get down a towel, and pull on the cord and catch the shower head as it falls, and I will climb on a chair to get down the rice that could have been easily handed to me. I'll listen to excuses about why my needs don't matter. I don't know how not to be small.

I see other people stand up for themselves, but I just rearrange the pantry, make the rice and bake the bread. ...And seemingly let it go as I secretly fall apart.

[Snowdrop]

 

[Armee]

You don't sound like a nagging housewife. I am sorry you are having to jump and climb on things while very pregnant to reach things. It is very inconsiderate of your partner to continue to put things you need to reach up high. Poo on them.

[Bermuda]

Something triggered me to think about my time homeless. I want to write about it because it's so far away now, and how I think about how I thought about it has changed. I hope that makes sense. (I am leaving out the terrible details that are not so relevent so hopefully this is not a triggering post.) Brace yourself for long read.

I grew up in a way that I was always on high alert and had to be several steps ahead. Back then I didn't know how abnormal things were, I only knew how I felt. When I was kicked out I left. It was something I was metally prepared for for a very long time. I knew it would happen, and I was ready. Even that day, before the words were spoken I had secretly packed a small makeshift bag that I made out of a piece of cloth that I kept beneath my candles to catch any wax drippings, I cleared my phone, took apart my computer and removed the hard drive completely and put it back together, hiding the hard drive in my cloth sack along with some phone numbers of the couple of people I knew, and my toothbrush. Before clearing my phone I sent my boyfriend at the time a message that it would happen, and asked him to park somewhere around the corner.

She stormed in, confiscated all of *her* things. She forced me into the family room where she belittled me, called me names. I never spoke back, I never argued. I never fought. She hated that. She pushed me verbally with all her best ammunition. I remember just muttering, "You don't understand, I can hear your words in my head when you are not there." That is all, I didn't plea, profess my innocence, beg, nothing. So the words were spoken, "Get the f* out of my house, and when you leave I never want to see your face again." At this point I had shed every tear dry, there was nothing to feel at that moment. I just said ok, grabbed my makeshift bag that I had put into a garbage bag and said, "I'll pay you back for the garbage bag." and I left.

My mother's motivations were always control. She wanted me to prove to her that I needed her, that I was useless, worthless, she knew I would be back.

I went to my boyfriend's house, he still lived at home too. He worked for my extended family doing contract work that took him away. His mother agreed that I could stay until he gets his next call to leave. They didn't believe how bad it was, and I didn't talk about it because I didn't know what wasn't normal either. So, when he had to leave he drove me down the street and left me there with my things. I had secretly gotten a job and opened a bank account, this was the catalyst for me being kicked out. So I went to my work, and explained to my boss the situation and asked for more hours. She denied me. A coworker overheard the situation and said that I could stay with her. I didn't know her very well, but I had no options and no one.

After she got off work, she drove me to her apartment. She had two very young children and a boyfriend that lived with her in a small studio apartment outside of town. She made an arrangement with me that I could stay if I help with childcare. I loved children and grew up in a religion with many children so it sounded good. I grew up extremely sheltered and that combined with desperateness I was unable to see any red flags. I don't remember her ever caring for her children, I stayed with them. I went to them in the night. There was no food in the house, so I bought them food with the little money I had. This arrangement didn't last very long. One night, in the middle of the night a strange man started banging on the door trying to knock it down. I hid in the bathroom with the children. This lasted a couple hours, the parents were no where to be found, and this guy looked crazed with bug eyes and was screaming for money they owed him and threatening to kill them. I did my best to stay calm for the kids as we huddled in the shower, but I was terrified. I had no phone or anything. The parents came home, it was shortly after the guy had tired himself out and left. I told them what had happened, and I don't even remember their reaction.

After they had gone back to bed, I grabbed my things and left. It was cold, and I hadn't slept yet. I was in a very bad neighbourhood. I found a 24h laundromat that was well lit despite having nothing around it. It was warm. I took out my small cloth, and went around to the backside of the laundromat where it was still very warm, and laid down to sleep on my cloth as the sun was coming up.

When the sun was up completely, I knew I couldn't stay there that it was too dangerous. I was young, and looked much younger than I actually was. I was small, and this was no place for me to be. I put my sack back together and started walking down the highway to where the nearest city was. I didn't have any food or water, and I walked for two days sleeping off the street in small ravines where no one could see me. The second night I remember slipping down into a ravine crossing some brambles, and finding a small clearing. I thought that was the perfect spot to sleep. I had only a small electric glow stick for light, I turned it on and was surrounded by glowing eyes. This clearing had been made by pigs. I ran at full speed out of there, through those brambles, and up onto that highway. I was covered in small scratches. I decided not to sleep that night, and just to walk toward the city lights.

After walking a while a police car stopped in front of me. I was terrified. I had not seen any good police officers before. This officer asked me what I was doing, and I told him the truth sobbing, that I was walking toward the city lights. He told me how far away they are, and questioned me about how old I am. I wasn't allowed to have any ID growing up, so I had nothing to prove who I was except my job badge (job that I no longer had, because I had no way to get there). This officer asked to go through my makeshift bag, and when he did I think he was heartbroken. He knew I wasn't lying. He offered me a ride to the city and dropped me off at a diner with some money to buy food.

I was very hungry, so I ordered the largest plate of food they sold. I remember the staff staring at me in disbelief as I ate. Unfortunately, half way through eating I got sick. I started vomiting because I hadn't eaten in so long. The waitress told me that my food was free. That money the police officer gave me, along with some money a school teacher gave me who saw me crying outside of a grocery store, lasted me my whole time homeless. Essentially what I spend on two meals these days lasted me seven months.

I stayed in the area of this diner after that. I met other homeless people who gave me tips. There was a shopping mall that after closing gave away their buffet food to the homeless, and the diner gave free coffee. Every day I ate one meal in the evening, and had free coffee at the diner. That was always enough for me, and I was happy. I never told anyone where I slept, and some nights I would ride the bus around in circles and sleep there because it felt safer. At one point I saw some professional homeless people had found my spot and set up camp. I was really scared, and stopped walking down that field at night to sleep.

I met this homeless person, an elderly man, we would chat at the diner most days. He had been homeless 15 years. He always tried to help me and teach me things that make it easier to survive. He gave me a pair of socks. One day he showed up at the cafe with a cell phone. He told me he stole it for me, he had actually stolen a different one but it was a modern one with internet and a GPS so he had to throw it out right away. He gave me this cell phone and taught me that I can use it in emergencies, that you can always call for help even without service.

I met this guy who was my age. He wasn't homeless, I don't know how he ended up there at our booth at the diner. I knew he just had a bad home life, as we all did, but I never asked. He knew that the ants had been biting me pretty badly. He said his parents were really strict but he would allow me to sleep a night in the back of his truck. We drove to his house that night, and I was in the back of his truck with him. He opened up a tool box and started showing me his knives. He collected knives, and demonstrated to me how sharp they were. I just acted unintimidated, although I was terrified inside, and played it off. In the middle of the night it began to rain, and he snuck out to the truck, and asked me to come inside. We snuck up the stairs, and he put a blanket next to his bed on the floor between his bed and the wall for me to sleep. It was out of sight. In the morning I woke up to the sound of him screaming and fighting with the mother and a loud bang. I came out of the room, and his mother was at the bottom of the stairs crying. He had hit her and pushed her down the stairs and left. She asked me who I was, and I told her, and she just apologised to me several times. Not just for her son, but for herself, over and over again. She told me that she had called the police, and that they were coming. She seemed like a really kind person, but I quickly grabbed my things to get out of there before the police showed. I really thought I would be in trouble.

At one point I met a girl, only a few years older than me. She slept in her car. Sometimes she let me sleep in her car too. She gave me clothes to wear, and asked if I would go with her to a strip club where she used to work as a waitress. She said she really wanted to get her job back as she had been fired. (I have written about this before somewhere in more detail) As someone who grew up really sheltered, I found the idea titillating (not sure if that word fits, but it seems apropos)... So I agreed to go with her to see what a strip club was.

This was the end of my homelessness, and the beginning of my struggles for documentation. I guess I wrote this post because I've always thought of homelessness as the happiest time in my life. Happiness is relative. I am glad I left. I am glad I fought. I understand why I am flighty, why I don't react. I understand why I was traumatised and how that trauma just escalated and was constantly reinforced, and this was just 7 months of my life. Not only that, but 7 months that I rarely think about as traumatic but somehow 17 years later they still follow me.

[rainydiary]

Bermuda, I appreciate you sharing your story.  I can relate to what you mean that a difficult time wasn't traumatizing - in your story of that time of homelessness you listened to yourself, made changes the best you could based on what you needed, and received genuine care from others.  For me, those are things that help keep trauma from becoming too much. 

[Bermuda]

Rainydiary, I think you are exactly right. That is it. For the first time in my life I experienced people as kind, caring, and helpful. It was a huge revelation to me to realise that everything I had been told about the world and people was a lie, and the bad didn't seem so bad.

[rainydiary]

Bermuda, I'm grateful you found those folks even in such difficult times.  Homelessness is also really stigmatized in society and I find myself thinking a lot about it.  For me, I tend to reflect as you noticed that many folks experiencing homelessness have/had unsafe living conditions even if they were in homes.  I think addressing this all is very complex.  I appreciate you sharing as it gives me a lot of food for thought.

[Armee]

Bermuda,

Thank you for writing this here and sharing with us.  It is a shame more is not done to help kids in this situation of needing to leave home. My heart hurts for little you. It hurts that home was so painful that living on the streets was less bad. That you had to be prepared to leave. That your mom would be so cruel. And for whatever you went through while living homeless. It's also a good reminder of how a small act of kindness like paying for someone's meal can help.

I've often wondered what my dad went through as I know he left home at 14 and lived homeless as a kid and an adult.

[Not Alone]

Bermuda, I felt a lot of compassion for you as I read about your time when you were homeless.

[Bermuda]

Thank you all, really, truly and deeply. Homelessness is something I am so passionate about, but it's also something I can't talk about. People are multifaceted. Even if I had ended up fulfilling a certain stereotype, would I have been to blame? I don't think so. Now I live a priviliged life in a wealthy country, where no one even sees poverty, and I'm just another normal unassuming person. I go about unassumingly as if I was birthed into this life and listen to lectures from pupils and professionals who cannot fathom. I am a professional and never speak out of turn or with passion. I hold back my whole existence every day.

[Bermuda]

This is a huge part of my story, and it's one that I always just glaze over. There are some news stories that have been forcing me to reflect on these times. I am getting bolder now. I am not afraid to say anything too identifying. I am not ashaimed. I will write here like no one is looking for me. TW: This post contains references to sibling abuse/child sexual abuse/incest/religious abuse.

Understanding the dynamic: Us siblings were intentionally pitted against eachother. I've written about how one of my brother's was forced to be the physical punisher, and I was often forced to be the babysitter or snitch. We all had roles that we didn't choose, but those roles also defined not only how we treated each other and how we responded to our abuse. My brother, the punisher, he endured the worst physical punishment when he was younger. That's what he responded to, what made him suffer. As he got too big, and frankly too big of a threat for that, he became the punisher. He would always tell me that I was a cry-baby. He would deny that anything was ever wrong. He would defend our parents at all cost. I believed him, that I was too sensitive. I endured the least amount of physical abuse because I didn't respond to it. I shut down and left my body. My siblings hated me for that. I was the snitch, and I was rarely beaten. In their eye's I was liked more. They didn't understand that it was all intentional, and that my parents had very different and very cruel ways to punish me in ways that hurt me. I remember one time we were shopping, and my siblings asked for toys. I never would have done that. My mother said to go pick out toys, and when I picked out one she told me to put it back, because I had already gotten sanitary napkins that month. My treatment was different than theirs, but I was never favoured. (I got my first menstruation very young.)

One of my brothers was very disturbed. He was always on the receiving end of the punishment given by the punisher. The worse he was punished, the more the punisher was praised for a job well done. This brother was chosen from birth to be "the one with problems". The pity-me child. My mother spoke of him like he came out messed up. She always said when he was born she knew something was wrong with him because he hated being touched, so she left him alone. All he did was scream. This brother would later be diagnosed with several different things to describe his social and behavioural issues. ADHD, aspergers, etc. He acted out in school a lot doing very inappropriate things, and was ultimately the reason all of us children were taken out of school and further secluded from any onlookers. He spend a lot of time locked up in a room.

The problem child, as I will refer to him, he had a propensity to act out sexually. It started when I was very young, maybe four or five. I may have written vaguely about this before, I can't remember. (Although I have a very early memory about having to have a physical examination as a toddler because I had lacerations on my vulva. That I have written about in my first journal.) So, when I was in kindergarten, my brother told his class for show and tell that he had sex with his sister. Me. There was an investigation, and I was interviewed with my mother standing behind the interviewer threatening me. I said everything I was told to say by my mother.

I can't comment on whether these things happened or not. I was 5. I knew nothing about sex, I just knew it was something bad. I knew that as a girl, that I should especially not do that, and I learned in church that I should be modest. Modesty was most important to make sure that didn't happen to me. I always sat with my legs crossed.

The one with problems became more problematic as I got order. He used to steel my underwear, and my church tights. He would hide them, but sometimes he would leave them intentionally in the shower for me to find... Used. There was no consequence for this. He harassed me, and everyone joined in on the joke. To be female was to be dirty, shameful, weak. My mother instigated this, and both the problem child and my mother called me derogatory names for females from a very very young age. He also stole my mother's things, this did however have consequence. One day, while searching his room she found he had cut open the lining on the bottom of his boxspring and hidden her dildo and underwear in there. She was furious. He was beaten, by the punisher, and locked away. He was never allowed outside of his room after this. He only left at family functions where we maintained an image of normalcy and extremely well-mannered children.

At a family function, when we were a bit older and all very very well aware, the problem child was holding a baby. I remember looking at my mother in disbelief, not saying anything. She just smiled back as if nothing unusual was happening. We had a huge family, and there were many babies and small children. This was my second cousin. The problem child asked to take my second cousin for a walk, an infant. My mother agreed and chatted with everyone around. I sat at the table with the females in shock, as my brother just wandered off with a baby who can barely hold their own head up. He returned maybe twenty minutes later. The baby did not have their nappy on correctly. My brother said that the nappy had fallen off, and that he didn't know how to fix it. (In this time, I had changed many nappies in my life already, and I knew that a baby that young did not pull their nappy off and that the nappy did not simply come undone. Nappies back then were adhesive and would not restick when they were unstuck, they were not repositionable.) I knew what he had done. My cousin had no idea, maybe she still has no idea that my second cousin was molested that day by my brother, and my mother let it happen. When my brother returned my mother just smiled, as my brother handed the baby back over to my cousin.

We never spoke a word of this. Eventually as a teenager my brother got caught. A neighbour had come over for something, and they had two young boys. My brother, who otherwise was locked up and punished almost all the time, offered to show the boys around. My mother agreed and let them leave the house alone. He walked them to the back of the property to an old barn where he threatened them, hit them in the back of their heads where he had learnt left no visible bruises (learnt from the best), and forced them to perform sexual acts on himself and eachother.

The court found him guilty, and as a minor he was sent to a psychiatric institution where he would stay indefinitely. (I know he is out now, but I don't know the whens and hows of it.)

I was often forced to see him in the institution. The worst was on my birthday. He and my mother belittled me, and called me derogatory female names, and I sat forced between my abusers. My brother reported being happy there, that he got lots of food, and foods like pizza. He said they were nice and they had diagnosed him with OCD and bulimia. (Because he was locked up for so long, I don't doubt either of those diagnoses) He had sores all up his arms where he had always picked his skin until it bled, just as I secretly pulled at my hair.

I was triggered because of recent stories in the news about similar topics, cover ups, cult abuse, etc. I've never told the whole story before to anyone. As I write my story in snippets I am beginning to see a bigger picture. A connected timeline. I know now that it was never me, I wasn't a sissy. This was abuse. I grew up in a home with a narcissist, a physical abuser, "the punisher", and "the problem child" who was a rapist.