Knives And Weapons

Last night I had a bad dream. I watched myself dissociate in our kitchen with a knife in my hand. I was completely out of myself, ran around and ranted about something I had forgotten. I put the knife to my throat and cut slightly into the skin until blood came out, but I did not feel a thing. I awoke with a scream, which merely ever happens. John was awake immediately and looked after me while I broke out in tears.

Only in the morning I realized it was a dream that has his root in my past. My father used to threaten me with knives, sometimes even with a gun. At some point, when I found out that he just got aroused by confronting me with a weapon, I started to like it and sometimes I still get a hard-on when we watch movies and a weapon is pressed against someone’s neck or temple in a certain way (slow, in control, kind of nice and cruel at the same time). I wondered whether it would hurt to get shot and when I found out that he was not about to kill me, I was sad. I thought it would have been an easy way out. I feared knives more as he could use them to stroke and to cut me. Sometimes he pretended he was going to castrate me or penetrate me with a knife to “deepen that hole”. He did not, but the mere mention of it made me go insane.

As I’m still very much drawn to Lord Shiva I thought about self-destruction once more. It is said that Lord Shiva dances the world and the Ego to an end and then rebuilds everything after His will. I wonder when this phase of rebuilding will ever take place for me. I always seem to make one step forward and then one step back, so that I stay right where I started. Am I more stable today than I was at age 21, when my father finally decided to get rid off me? I don’t know. I guess I have never talked about it. I had thought that I was precious to him and that he would never really attempt to kill me, let away all his severe tortures. I was surprised when he finally did and I remember the split of a second when I realized that this time he was real. We had rehearsed my death that often that I was stunned when it got through to me that he wanted to finish it. I had wished for death so often since my childhood but when I realized I was going to die, I did not want to. I was sad and angry, because I asked myself “that’s all to my life?!”. I had not experienced love, I had not lived on my own, I had not seen the ocean. When the lights faded, I was only sorry for me.

I’m still sorry for me nowadays. I grieve for the person I never was, I was never allowed to be. Perhaps I’d be as smart as my brother, have a normal job, earn money, be normal. Perhaps I would not like pain that much and need it as an anchor, which is really quite lunatic. Perhaps I’d have a normal relationship without the urge to get hurt, mentally and physically. I love John and I love our life, but sometimes I can’t help but wonder. Would I be normal? It’s easy to claim “normal is boring”, when you’re quite normal. It’s cynical when you’re broken like me.

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