A former co-worker once told me to my face and out of the blue: “You’re dangerous.” I produced a helpless smirk. He insisted: “No, I really mean it. You are truly dangerous.” I must admit, I was confused and a little irritated. I didn’t care to know why he thought this way about me. I had a different image of myself then and he was the first and only one ever to say something like this. Charming.
Today, I was reminded of the possible reason that made him say this about me: I come close to a psychotic fit when the wrong buttons are pushed. These buttons are (some of them, the list goes on a little): Invading my privacy and inviting oneself in to places, I haven’t issued an invitation to. Meddling. Tampering with my decisions. Emotionally exploiting me. Yes. These things and a few more repeatedly get the better part of me (if there was such a thing to begin with), in particular so when I give the reading lecture: “Read my lips – DON’T GO THERE!”
WTF happened? I have issued a ban of no contact with bio family again. I have pleaded, I have begged. I have cried out in despair to finally, eventually leave me the fuck alone. I wrote a letter, only thinly veiling a “you fucked me up good, leave me be”. It worked for about five weeks (since the time I had gone there, still believing I could make myself heard… what have they intoxicated me with when I was little to be this naive..?). Then I see their caller ID on my phone. My impulse: Can’t be anything good – and fuck, if I knew, what made me pick up the phone. Guilt? The old “you’re out of line” guilt trip I was sent on a gazillion times? Feeling worthless? “You’ll never amount to anything, if you don’t do as I say. Wait, till your father gets home tonight, he’ll give you a thorough beating as you deserve.” “Get out of my face and into your room and don’t you dare coming down before diner.” For any of those statements resonating in my head?
Yes, I’m dangerous. If I put any of the feelings that had a hold of me as the day progressed – despite my fervent attempts of shifting down and holding up against the onset of psychotic feelings – into words, I might risk getting introduced to those folks offering me a “self-hugging” jacket. I am nothing but a valve to them, an emotional waste bin, a door mat to step on when they can’t deal with their own feelings any longer. I come from dysfunctional retards and I’m embarrassed for them and myself. I hate myself for the mere fact that there is a biological link. I am disgusted at the mere thought that I come from… that? Weren’t contraceptives around during the war? WTF?
God help me. I’ve done enough work on myself to be important to myself now. I’m not ready to lose it and then ultimately go to jail or a closed ward for the mere fact that they couldn’t keep from fucking where and when they shouldn’t have. Human waste. White trash. Wannabe’s playing grown-ups. Sick and fucked up to the core. Go and treat your own fucking trauma your-fucking-selves, retards!
I want to give myself up for adoption. Too late at 48, you say? Aw, shit. There goes another nice idea… Dangerous, you say? Hell no! Impatient with retards, is all.