I tried to do Day of Silence yesterday. I failed miserably. I couldn’t stand the suffocating feeling of not being allowed to talk, that I’d thought I’d left behind when I moved out of my parents’ house. It was scream or talk, so I talked. Anyway, with two language classes, I couldn’t exactly hope to really stay silent anyway.
Maybe next year I’ll be able to do it. This just wasn’t a good time. About a week ago, I had a nightmare that my dad was trying to stab me with a knife–it was my own knife, a pocketknife I once had, but lost when I was about 11. Big blade, locks when open. Like, an actual weapon. I’ve spent a lot of time the last several weeks wishing I still had it because the knife I have now is barely enough to sharpen a pencil with. So in my dream, my dad was trying to stab me with that. At one point, I got the knife from him and tried to get him back, but I couldn’t remember where to stab, tried for his ribs but it wouldn’t go in, and then I ended up slashing his back several times, not deeply, not much more than shaving cuts. And then he got the knife back. At this point some female figure I can’t positively identify came up to me holding a ceramic platter and told me that if I could scream high enough to shatter it, I’d be safe. So I kept trying, but I was always like a half step too low. And I kept on trying, and at this point I managed to sort of make a real scream and woke myself up. It was a quarter to six on a Sunday morning, so I went back to sleep. Then I had a less scary, more normal nightmare about sort of verbally arguing with my mom–except it wasn’t just my mom, it was also this person I know who cosplays a mother figure from Homestuck. I’d been to a 4/13 party a couple days before, and she’d been dressed as that character. And then I had a really random dream in which, among other things, a turtle raped a lizard. After the other dreams, this was kind of traumatizing, too.
So then I spent this entire week triggered as hell and freaking out constantly. I think the dream about my dad was to blame. I’m not sure which was more traumatic: the part with him attacking me, or with me attacking him. My dad doesn’t usually directly emotionally attack me, usually just backs up my mom, but when he does, it really, really hurts. And he’s the parent I want to just love. Even though he’s practically Toad of Toad Hall.
This week, I could barely eat. This week, I could not stop shaking. This week, I slept less than 4 hours per night because I was scared to go to bed. This week, I walked around wondering whether it was the world or I who was unreal. This week, I spent all my energy resisting the urge to either curl up in a ball on the floor or to fall asleep when I wasn’t tired, just so I wouldn’t have to deal with the never-ending panic attack. This week, I realized that if I had to live at my parents’ house over the summer it would literally kill me. This week, I could hardly function when out of sight of my close friends, or even when they were in the room but talking to someone else for a moment, when they weren’t touching me. This week, I shattered. This week, the entire sky was laughing at my name. This week, this week of screams.