Valentine’s Day Massacre

No, I’m not talking about the Lakeland Shooting.  Although, that was one for the record books.  This morning, a bunch of HUGE corporations decided to cut ties with the NRA.  Thank Goddess someone higher up has sense.

I digress.  Ever since I was 6, I get sick on Valentines Day.  As I grew older, they just sucked, and as much of a romantic that I am, hope ran out, but this year, hope was restored.  Couldn’t figure out why I thought I was getting better-which I am so I didn’t question the phenomenon.

Turns out the part, Angela who belongs to Matilde’s system is ghostwriting this blog.  She also apparently holds the memory of the Valentine’s Day incident.  I knew I had to write a blog about the flashback.  I’ve been putting it off since I had the flashback, two weeks ago.  But, yesterday and today, I have been filled with a terrible sadness.  A grief that will not abate.  The only way the grief will lessen is if I process the flashback the ‘ole Bessel Van Der Kolk way.  Write it all out, feelings, sights, smells, everything, and it’s essentially pronking.  What is pronking, you ask?

When an antelope or any other animal in the wild escapes the jaws of a leopard or tiger or whatever, they jump around-pronking.  It gets the high levels of cortisol and other neurotransmitters out of the high range by pronking, it gets the attack and neurotransmitters from settling in the muscles-muscle memory.  Animals don’t have PTSD.  Because of their survival instincts kick in (Pronking), it jars the memory out of the muscles.  So, they don’t have flashbacks.  Humans, however, don’t get to pronk until later.  Sometimes decades later, if at all.  And, we have all that fun shame and guilt and fear.  Hence why when you become angry after a flashback, tennis racquet on a pillow or ice cubes chucked in the sink, all the while yelling and screaming at the top of your lungs.  The human equivalent of pronking.  This website is yet another avenue for me to pronk.

I’m not quite sure what to do at this point.  I’m tired.  Basically, I was 7 years old-TRIGGER WARNING-in my Valentine’s romper (White with red hearts) and I was at home, by myself, cuz I was sick.  My parents couldn’t afford to take the day off school/work, so I just stayed home.  The Roaches knew.  They sent over their good buddy with the leather motorcycle jacket and a jean vest over the jacket to pay me a visit.  He had long, stringy black hair, and he knocked on my bedroom doorjamb.  yes, this fucker was sent over by the Roaches to have his way with me.  The Roaches weren’t selfish, they shared me with all their friends.  As my stomach turns just saying that and remembering all the things that others have done to me because of the courtesy of them.

So this son of a bitch gives me a 6-inch leather strap to bite on.  I even took off my own romper, bit down on the strap and rolled on my stomach.  I had become so conditioned by the abuse, I just caved.  It was easier to go along with the abuses because fighting got me nowhere or just more abuse.  So, greasy pedophile zipped up, took the strap-I knew I was not the first and not the last-and left my house.  I took all evidence of the assault down to the basement and put it all through the laundry.  When my parents came home, they were none the wiser.  I was sick, so it was no big deal that I went and hid out in my bedroom.

I feel terrible for that little girl.  For me.  I feel, for the first time, a genuine and deep sadness that I have never felt before.  I’m gonna go pronk.



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