Why Did I Turn To You?: An exploration of my recent dreams and past relationship

My dreams have been weird lately. Not the usual violent re-imaginings of what he did or strange dreams that I forget once I opened my eyes. But these dreams these past few days I remember well into the day and hold onto because I want to know what they mean.

They start in my old High School but now it’s an Psych Ward. I’m in my usual Psych Ward outfit of PJ’s and sweaters and those socks with the no slick on the bottom. The fellow patients is my friend group from High School. Even the people I hate now. Even those who I’m still friends with. With my wife. Even Damien.

But Damien is nice to me. Very nice. I’m even dating him in the dream. A Harley drawn to her abusive Joker. But there was no abuse. The smiling demon was kind, gentle, all that I wanted him to be. All that he was in front of people (except when he obviously was not, my good friends telling me to leave him) But he was brighter. He even dressed brighter, not in the style I was usually attracted to. It’s a joke, my mind is trying to tell me that dark and broody is not good. Go for the guys who wear polo shirts and khakis. Which is bullshit. I’m not attracted to males any more, and even if I was, I like my dark and broody and Gothic. (just how I like my women and in betweens.)

But dating within the hospital is very very very against the rules. (has been at every hospital I’ve been sent to) ((though I know two couples who meet at one and continue the relationship on the outside. Successfully too)) But I guess in dream world no one cares. The couples from High School are still coupled. We sit in the same spots in the now “Day room” that we did back then. The huge windows now blinded so we can’t see outside, denied our sunshine and any idea of the weather. In one dream I looked out them and saw absolutely nothing, like we were in a vacuum. Which I guess we were. We never had visitors. We never had doctors. We never had nurses. We were in perpetual group therapy with no leaders.

I had my current diagnoses and everyone called me a liar. “Look at your boyfriend, he’s so sweet to you, he’s never raped you.” “He’s never hit you, we’ve all been watching.” “He would never lie to you.” “Liar.” Liar” “LIAR!” And then it echoes and repeats and maybe that’s why I can’t listen to Liar by Emilie Autumn, although it used to be me calling Damien a Liar. It was my song for him. Thank you EA.

But now I hear it in my head, doubting my memories. I was on Ativan, which makes you forget things. I guess? Not quite sure how it works. All I know for sure is that when I took half a bottle I lost an entire day. (and was hospitalized. This was November 2016)

All I know is that I’m starting to doubt myself. Was I raped? Was I raped as a child? Was I raped at 15? Was it repeatedly? Can I trust myself?

Cutting Diary 1/31/17

I finished carving Monster into my thigh. The T I made into a huge inverted cross because I’m edgy. I wish I knew how to carve into my flesh with smooth roundness. Make my O and S and R less slashery. But I suppose it fits my status as a monster. 

My mom, step mom, is mad at me today. She’s actually not mad but is generally upset and snapped at me. So I reacted by laying in bed and doing nothing. 

All I want to do is sleep. I put on makeup just for it to get smeared on my pillow. For my eyes to cry black down my cheeks. I’m a fucking nutcase. A fucking stereotype. A fucking teenage girl even though I’m grown and don’t fall on the gender binary. (though all anyone ever sees is girl) 

It’s dark outside. 

I want to play in traffic but I can’t even move from my bed until absolutely necessary. 

How long until nessessary things don’t even get me moving? 

Cutting Diary 1/28/17 & 1/29/17 + more

So I went quite a bit of time without cutting. But I spent a lot of that time picking scabs because I’m clutzy and scrapped up my knees pretty badly (in my favorite striped stockings.) But last night and this morning I went back to carving “Monster” on my left leg again. Everything had faded and didn’t scar except for the first line in the M. I have this true obsession picking at my skin. Picking at hang-nails and watching the blood line my nail. I love blood. I love watching myself bleed.
I am a monster. My personality is a monster. That’s how it feels having a personality disorder. My bipolar and I are on good terms. It’s medicated and I ride that wave with grace. It’s not gone but it’s there because I am it. No matter how many times people will tell me I am not it, I am it. Fuck the lies. But my BPD and I… we are not friends. It’s why I feel like my friends keep their distance. Why I feel like no one likes talking to me. It’s all so forced. My PTSD is ignored. People talk about being medicated for it and I’m not being medicated for it. Is my PTSD a lie then? Then why tell me I have it?
I stopped going to my trauma therapist. Just as she predicted if I was truly Borderline. Showed her didn’t I?
I stopped going to ACA… I only went to the one meeting but the cost of the books I was required to have??? We don’t have the money for that.
I feel empty of words of things I wanted to talk about the past…month. But I didn’t. I was either too lazy or uninspired. But I’ve been reading a lot. At least I’m doing something, even though it’s curled up in bed or on the couch or in the car with all the driving I’ve been having to do this past month.

My asshole of a Psychiatrist has upped my medication and added an anti-depressant.  Effexor. Fuck me, I was under the impression that you don’t put bipolar people on anti-depressants. That it makes them either manic or depressed. I’m depressed. So depressed that I feel like I need to be hospitalized. But I’ve been hospitalized sooo many times now I feel like no one takes it seriously. Let’s see how far I fall before I attempt again. Maybe this time I’ll die. Then maybe they’ll believe me then.

I am in a crisis and no I am too stubborn to self sooth or use any of the DBT skills that I’ve relearned and relearned again and again. No. They feel like band-aids. I know exactly what to do but I don’t do it. I am self destructive. I have no love of life. It’ll be better on everyone if I was dead. You can tell me that these are lies my head is telling me but they scream as truths and drown you all out. No amount of telling me that you love me and want me to live will keep me living. No amount of self help books will keep me breathing.

I guess I’m just lucky I have no plan right now. I just am willing myself to waste away as I sit here at my computer staring off, keeping my fingers busy. Or as I lay in bed, surrounded by cats as I try to sleep so I don’t have to face the nightmare of being awake.

Truth of the matter is that I’m being triggered by Damien constantly through my waking hours. Every thing reminds me of him and the pain that people aren’t grasping. It wasn’t a one time rape while I enjoyed every other sexual encounter with him. It was a rape. Another rape. A continuous rape until I was stuck with him believing that only he could love me. So I loved him. Because I was scared into loving him. Hating every time he touched me but running to him to be touched because he utterly convinced me that no one else would ever love me. Punished by him every time I hurt myself because I was scared.

I felt so alone.
And some how I still feel so alone even though I do have true love. The mental disorders makes me feel alone and I need to fight it but I just can’t any more. I just can’t. I’m sick of swallowing a handful of prescribed pills twice a day and one in the afternoon. It’s ripping up my insides. Upsetting my stomach. My eyes hurt. I’m taking medication to help with the side effects of the other medication.

I’m told that I’m psychotic. Then I’m told I’m not.
I’m told that I’m severally mentally ill. Then I’m told I’m not.
What am I? Why am I?
Take me seriously!
Stop telling me lies!
Let me have my fucking choice to end my life god damn it. Why is having control over my own life such a crime?
Why is hurting myself, which I use to release the tension of my suicidal idealization such a crime.
My choice. My body.
Oh but I know how much that’s a lie. My body belongs to the government which may no longer protect my health and I’ll lose my medications, lose my therapist, and then truly be out of my fucking mind and not held back. Not able to go to the psych ward.
Maybe it’ll be a blessing and I can finally die.

Cutting Diary 12/13/16

My whole left side stings. It’s keeping me from floating off and away. Keeping me real. 

I cut my thigh. My arm. Up and down. I didn’t count them. I just… Kept going until the song Anakin’s Betrayal ended. Now I’m lying in bed listening to all of my music in the dark. Shaking. Shaking as I type on my phone. Waiting for Aunna to get home. I look like a real mess. 

I’m trying to cry but instead I bleed. Bleeding my sorrow out I guess. Clense me of pain and make me real. 

Make me real

Cutting Diary 12/12/16 tw: cutting photo 

Don’t let them throw me away

Am I real? I don’t feel real. 

I’m losing myself again. Too big for my skin. Itching and pulling at my insides. 

I can’t sleep

I want to peel my skin off

Take someone elses life and be them for awhile. 

I don’t want to be me any more. 

“Throw Me Away”

Flesh wound, flesh wound
With medication it will fade
Should I assume
That someone hears me when I pray?

Love, full of hate
Don’t you love how I break?

[Chorus]
Don’t let them throw me away
Keep me and I’ll be okay
Skipping a beat but it plays
Don’t let them throw me away
Don’t let them throw me away

Screwed up, used up
Crumpled, lying on the floor
Fucked up, shut up
All you did back then was score

I’m feeling weak
Missing parts, incomplete

[Chorus]

Hold me up into the light
Fix the cracks and fix them right
Keep the pieces in the drawer
Keep them there forever more
May come in use for some day
Recycle this shit in some way
And all that I have to say
Don’t let them throw me away

[Chorus]

– Korn






I hurt myself today Cutting diary 12/4/16

Self Harm – “Nonsuicidal selfinjury, often simply called selfinjury, is the act of deliberately harming the surface of your own body, such as cutting or burning yourself. It’s typically not meant as a suicide attempt. Rather, this type of selfinjury is an unhealthy way to cope with emotional pain, intense anger and frustration.”


It’s more than that. Self harm is any act that hurts you. Physically. Emotionally. Relationship wise. 

Sex can be self harm.

I’m gay but not one of those “gold star lesbians” (oh gods I hate that term) but I would have sex with men for money. I’m just using my body as a tool. Tonight I used it as a tool to get back my Star Wars dvds from a “friend”.

Simply asking him to hang out didn’t work so I told him I was horny (which I wasn’t) and faked orgasming with him. But hey I got my dvds back. 

I hate myself

Tonight I picked on Aunna, my wife, trying to get her to play. I hurt her. I pinched and pulled and scratched until she hit me. And hit me. Hit me until I laughed and laughed. 

Finally I was punished. 

I still want to hurt myself. I still want to die. I would love to not wake up. 

I would love to sneak off, find the key to the medicine cabnit and down a whole lot of pills but I can’t because everyone is sick of my shit. I need to pretend to be okay. 

I’m not okay. Not at all. 

Cutting Diary 12/11/16

“I am clearly broken and no one knows what to do
Pieces of the puzzle don’t fit, so I pound them into you” -Get Up!, Korn

These cutting diaries are getting too close together. But I need to do this so I see it documented so when I say I’ve gone so many months without harming I could have an exact date.
I hurt myself today over the dumbest thing. I didn’t hurt myself much. Just four little cuts above my knee on my right leg.

But Aunna had a nightmare. In her nightmare we found out that I would never get better so they offered me assisted suicide. And I took it. She said she held me the whole time as I died. And then she walked through our house (but wasn’t our current home) crying, with all the memories of me through out the house. She woke up crying and I tried comforting but all I could say was sorry. That some how it was my fault she had this dream. Which it is.

I’m the one who’s tried killing myself several times. The one who hurts myself constantly. If I was offered to die, I would take it.

It would break Aunna’s heart, but I would still do it.

I’m a selfish person. I see clearly what my sickness does to people and I don’t get better. I don’t try hard enough to get better.

I want to die.

Cassandra

Today I went to my first ACA (Adult Children of Alcoholics) meeting. It’s not just for children of alcoholics, but children of dysfunctional families. Mine’s normal dysfunctional. Divorced. Remarried. Two half brothers. I’m the oldest out of four. But I belonged at the meeting, regardless.
My dysfunction is searching for love from my mom. Both moms. Birth and step. And I’m not getting what I need so I turn to addictive behaviors such as sex, eating, smoking, and cutting.

I shared my short story of how I look for that love in other people, in abusive people. That despite I get it from my wife it’s just not enough. I want it from my mothers. From the one who gave birth to me. From the woman who married my father. Who CHOSE ME. Didn’t regret me. Who chose me until I wasn’t enough and she had to have her own. She says she loves us all equally but I felt replaced.

This group knows me and calls me Cassandra. A name I hate and don’t use. A name my mother gave me. But I am here to heal the little girl, Cassandra. Where the BPD started. It was Cassandra who was emotionally abandoned. It was Cassandra who was raped at 6 by her friend’s cousin. It was Cassandra whom parents were divorced.

I’m doing this for her so Icarus, the genderless being that I am, can thrive.


Group was not what I was expecting. I was shaking the whole time with fear, feeling like the fraud police were going to get me. Tell me that I didn’t belong there that I wasn’t “bad enough.” (But I have the scars and cuts and I’m a repeat rape victim with my list of mental illnesses, believe me, I need this)
But everyone there who shared shared something that I have been through, that I have thought, that I had felt. That I was currently feeling. One person stole the words right out of my mouth “I have to be the most insane one to justify all of this.”
Another person spoke about how he painted the ugly and deformed because that was where he found his Higher Power.
People spoke of looking for love from parents who weren’t giving it. About feeling like a freak.
We talked about how it was them who weren’t accepting OUR gift of OUR love. It was them, not us who were wrong. But we still had to be accountable for our feelings and actions. We are valid, but that doesn’t always make us right.
We talked about how we are responsible of our response to our traumas.
But what about PTSD???? Are we responsible on if we get PTSD then?

All I know is that I did not ask to have PTSD. I did not asked to be raped. My behaviors and facts made up of what others created for me may have lead me to those who abused me, but I did not ask for it. I did not know how to ask for help out of it. I did not know how to avoid it. How can I be responsible for that? How can I be responsible for something no one taught me???

It’s like fool me once shame on you, fool me twice or more times shame on me. Rape me once, shame on you. Rape me again…and again…and again… shame on me?

Something isn’t right there but that’s how my trauma/marriage therapist describes it.

Shame on me for getting raped by Damien. Especially since he did it many times, right? That’s my fault? I don’t get it.


My trauma/marriage therapist is afraid (if I am truly Borderline as she says) that I’ll split on her. That I’ll tell my general therapist that I don’t like her. Because that’s what borderlines do. We try to get people on our side once we don’t like a person.

How dare she call me out like that.

But also, why is that a bad thing? I’m hurt. I’m offended. Why is it bad to seek comfort from someone that agrees “yes what she said was wrong and unfair to you.”

I am fragile. Handle me with “kid gloves” damn it. I’m still a kid. I haven’t grown up from 6. I haven’t grown up from 15. Too many ages in my head to act 26.


Cassandra was raped at 6 years old. I didn’t even realize it until I was much older but the more I dig up the memory the more techno color it appears.

Cassandra wasn’t raped at 15. She was dead before that.

But Rin? Rin was molested a handful of times. Then she was raped. Many times. By the same abusive boyfriend. Molested again by male friends she mistakenly got close to.

Then Rin was raped by a female friend she got too close to. We don’t like talking about that.
That was when Rin died and I was born.

They say it takes seven years to have completely new cells. I was born with seven years to get my own body again. One she hadn’t touched. Three down, four to go.

But I, Icarus, refuse to be touched again in ways I don’t want to.

I’ve already fucked that up, whoring myself out to a male friend to hurt myself. It isn’t rape. But it’s self harm.

It’s been a week almost, hasn’t it? Can I make it 7 years. Will I make it to 33? Will I even make it to 30?

Fuck, will I make it to 27? To 2017. Will I make it to tomorrow?


My wife left her keys here today, by accident. I have access to my medications. I could over dose right now if I wanted to or not. I don’t know if I want to. I know I want to cut again. Oh I really want to cut again. But I also want to take a handful of Ambien and sleep. Sleep until I die.


I don’t like groups. Though I’m going to keep going. It opens wounds. Group doesn’t close them. Maybe it does and I’m not letting it?

This is on me to make it work.

But do I want it to work?

Am I just that so in love with my pain that I am incurable?

Why do they bring God and a Higher Power into everything. I have a complicated relationship with God. They began and end with the Serenity prayer.


“God, grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things that I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.”


How is serenity going to help me?
How can I change anything?
Courage? I have none.
Wisdom??? I have zero.

I want to change everything, I do not fucking care if there are things I can’t change. Fuck me.