elsadaisywrites

[elsadaisywrites]

House of sand

On that bed two lie naked. Old skin, thin and worn. Teeth, jagged and stained. At one point they were a man and a woman. But now, they were lumps under sheets. It’d be nice to hold each other, but then that’d mean they liked each other. She wakes up first. It was somewhere between lunch and dinner. The two most important times of the day. She hated waking up, crawling out of bed, and how stuffy the air was. But she got up, and she went to look at the front door. She looked at the front door, but she was naked. She was naked, so she put on a robe. Sometimes she wondered just what exactly went on the night before. The night before she woke with bruises and sore bones. The night before the sheets got covered in blood, or maybe vomit. But any fool would know what went on. She was a fool, for sure. She just much preferred to wonder. He was still naked, stuck in the sheets. Probably glued there, next to their spoons. 

Under her feet, granules crunched like leaves.

Step, step, step. To the pantry. Get your Cheerios. Step, step, step. Here comes the man. Squash the bug. Get your Cheerios. My man, go get it. Step, step, step. Go make some coffee, honey. If only her father had taught her how to box. So he ate his Cheerios, and he liked the Giants. Watched them as often as she’d let him. She was waiting for her coffee. She poured her cup, sat down. He got up. He got his coffee, and she took the Cheerios, because fuck it. She was up first. He was naked. He was just so naked. She should have stayed in high school. 

If she looked through the steam of the coffee, he was maybe handsome. He was maybe not so thin. He was maybe not so greasy. It’d be nice to pour her coffee on him, let it soak into the sand. It’d be nice if he’d shower. It’d be nice if she smiled. It’d be nice… if for just one goddamn day he was enough. 

That was their lives. That was their whole entire lives. That was it. After her coffee she swept the tiles. Out on to the front porch, as there was too much for a dustpan. Beat the rugs, babe. 

When she woke up, she would look at the door. Then put on her robe. At night they’d get high and she’d lay there. Sometimes she’d pour coffee on him, and sometimes he’d want some Cheerios. He never told her to stay. She never told him that she didn’t like it when he took the Cheerios. Often, she didn’t stay. Always, she would come back. It was love. Take me back. Forgive me. And they did. Too many mistakes, and too many miscarriages. He was sorry, and he was guilty. And when she was naked he just couldn’t help it. And she didn’t care (but she cared). He would come home with flowers, and she would take them. Then, scoop the sand off the table, off the counters. Sand was piled next to the T.V., and he pretended to see the Giants, clear-as-day. Babe, get the rugs.

Once she left, gone for a whole month. He thought it was for good. She must have made up with her mother. He got himself a Pittie, named it Blu. Gentle. Blu was a rescue. One day there she was. Fuck him. The man was just so sorry, he was just so sorry, and he was thankful she came back. Sorry about the dog. Only just a dog. She didn’t think so, and she was wrong. But she ran him over in her rusty Ford. He couldn’t have a thing. He buried the dog in back. Her mother had been dead since June, and the sand started coming back.

When one would get mad they’d whoop the other. Then, she would leave. Then, she’d come back. No friends, and their family was gone, who’d love trash anyway? Other trash would. Slap. slap, slap. No doggy for you. No pittie, no kitty, no rotten old fish. Kick, kick, kick. No job. No degree. They just look at ch’ya too funny. Spit, spit, spit. Your family’s shit. Gobble. Gobble, gobble. You can hobble for awhile. What can it hurt? I know you’ll come back.  

They acted like the sand wasn’t even there.     

Would you believe they were 42. Just yesterday they were 16. Just last night he knelt down in front of her, and pulled out a ring. It was nothing special. Bastard probably stole it. He said something about love and God and she laughed him away. It started raining sand. He spent the night on the floor (in the sand), feet away from his Blu who was resting just outside the door. How many times had he asked her? He had lost count. She just wanted to see if he’d ask again. She just wanted to see how many times she could leave before he changed the locks. 

Just the day after she felt eternity would be better. Swearing on her life and on the bible and on Blu that another night in that bed and she’d set the house on fire. So she waited until he went to bed. And pulled out his handgun, the one he kept safe in the closet. And she’d point it at him. Then at her. Then at him. Then she’d put it back. Then she’d pick it up. Then she left the house. How many times had she promised to burn the house down? How many nights were spent staring at the barrel of a gun? Where is my picket fence? They’d lost track.

She never messed with the gun before, long before. But years ago she had never touched drugs. Drugs were here now, and so was her man. Years ago she had never killed a thing. But his dog was gone, and he was still here. People change. There was a time when he had never known what it felt like to have his dick burned. Then she threw hot coffee on him, naked. There was a time when neither knew what it felt like to be forgiven, and then they met each other. 

She came back in the house that very night, ankle deep in sand. The same as any other night she had left the house, but this was like the night she first shot up. This was like the night she killed his dog. This was like the night he choked her and he choked her hard. He loaded up the needle, and wound her arm up good. Off to bed. And in the morning she was up before him, and she was a woman of her word. That extra gallon of gas? Yes, the one in the little red container. Yes, that one. Pouring it on him. At first he thought it was just another wake up call. A pot of coffee. But this one wasn't hot, yet. He jumped out of bed, smelling the stench. Before she lit the match he had her bloodied and out the door, naked. They were both just so naked. 

They were both just so naked all the time. At 16, he had a truck. In the back of the truck they’d get naked. Everything had been so surreal and forgettable and unsure. Hating the feeling of it coming to an end. Rather spend their whole lives in the back of a truck. Under a blanket. When the ground they slept on was clean. No need to walk or to eat or to breathe. That meant it would change. That meant that things would change. Both were just so scared, scared to lose one another. Scared to breathe, because that would change things. Lovebirds tangled up like a web, lying on a bed. Their hearts so far past simple and sweet. 

Their house was just so dirty. She wished he’d let her open the blinds. Burp, burp, burp. He hasn’t shaved in weeks. Yell, yell, yell. Now, they’re 53. Punch, punch, punch. And their lives are still the same. Cry, cry, cry. Together, they were alone. 

Farther along the line they went. An overdose… or two. But they still haven't kicked it, yet. “What a shame…”, said the neighbors. “They’re no good for eachother…”, said the cops. But who would they be without one another? Without drugs and the sand they would still be the same. Without one another, they just wouldn't be together. Sirens heard, everyday. She was soft, like a bird. He went away. Off to the pound, and she brought him back, again. But when she drove her Ford, he fought back. Then naked they would go to bed. Together. 

Each time, the sand rising. Sometimes coming down in torrents. Doing their best to sweep it out. 

She had a vase, once, that broke. He’d used it as an ashtray, for his smokes. All of the ashes and all of the butts came tumbling out, and onto the rug. She had broke the vase, but he was the one who wasn't so kind to her grandma’s old gift. Yes, he had known how much it had meant. Really, now that all was spent, could a vase really break an old lover’s nest? And that was the straw, that broke the camel’s back. Oh, wait… she came back. This time waist deep, then rising rising, until they couldn’t breathe.

Drive, drive, drive. The old man went to sell her Ford. Sweep, sweep, sweep. She finally did some chores. Changing the blanket, and washing the sheets. The sand was blowing away, in heaps. Pour, pour, pour. Gasoline goes in the tank. The tank of a truck, that he had painted blue. Whoop, whoop, whoop. Whoop the cushions of that couch. Where he can watch the Giants, and you can drink coffee without a pout. How? How? How? How does that robe fit you so nicely? Did you buy it for yourself? Where? Where? Where? Where did the spoons go? Did you just throw them out like that? Oh, I know! They went in the drawers. Cheerios aren't just a snack. You pour them in bowls, with milk and your coffee. Then you sit at the table, and watch the sun rise. Then off to the bedroom. Who will be first? “Just sit there, my darling? You’ve tried, did it work?” And he pulls out the gun, and together they stare. Together like always. He points it at air. Then suddenly, she’s looking into that barrel again. She doesn’t care if she’s pretty. She cares if it ends. Then his turn to go. Together again, they lie once more. Their house full of sand. The end.

[elsadaisywrites]

Coffee in the Morning

He knelt down to hand it to me. A pink bear with gold shimmer and big black eyes  and the bear, he was big. As big as my leg. My eyes would shoot up looking for more. The aisles were huge. There were shelves and shelves, no matter where I turned, there was a new toy. And he would kneel down in faded blue jeans and brown Doc Martens and a thin black glasses frame and a button down shirt. And he would smile. His teeth were square and white and his eyes gray, and he was always squinting. Running his hand through his hair, he would purse his lips as he stood. He could reach the tallest shelves. A giant, he was. He would go and hug mom, and I would look at all the glitter. I’d run up, and run down. The rows, they were stocked. In my future there was a castle with portraits and dogs just running all around. All kinds, a game of fetch, forever. Back and forth. The bed was huge and shrouded in a red duvet and a chef prepared tiramisu. These new toys, piled in the car. His name was Perro, and he was lost in a pile of colorful friends. 

The unpacking was slow. My mother told me we were slow and steady and that would win the race, like the tortoise and the hare. But, what race was there to win if we weren't going anywhere? A nap in my own bed after a hard days work was better than a half a nights sleep on the air mattress with mom, dad, and the dog. But awake I would be, Mom woke us all up. She would lead the dog out. I would look up at dad and he would fumble with his glasses. Always streaked and greasy. And his hair he would finger comb. Black and oily, his fingers made little roads in his hair. It stuck. I would look up at him. He would shoot up like a rocket. Straight outta bed. He opened the window and it was cold. He breathed it in, and I didn’t understand. Mom told me to get up. Hot chocolate. I drank it in the bathroom. I crouched on the toilet, and she tugged my ashen hair into two tails at either side of my head. She liked to do things like this, even though she never smiled. 

Dad might pick me up, and I’d climb on his shoulders. Hanging to his forehead, “...well i can't see through your hands, can I?” The three of us, sometimes the dog. A little brown one. He was older, but he was mine. Sometimes mom and dad had two friends who would join. She had a bony face, and loose skin on thin arms. He had oily hair, too. His teeth were sharp and gray, missing some, too. And I had a hunch that they were not a mom and a dad. We would go to the store. All of us. And sometimes the man would slip things into his pockets, and when we would get outside they would giggle. I knew this was very bad, but mom and dad never said a thing to them.

Every morning was the same. Mom woke us up, dad got air, I got pigtails. The house was so cold, and the boxes never left, and I never minded. The tile was freezing, and I always thought it was from the emptiness of the place. Some houses are always warm. We had nice high ceilings, and my mom had a deep closet. It had bars for clothes hangers, but she stuffed it with books. Books on the very top shelf. Books on the middle. Books on the floor. I liked to arrange them differently. Sometimes I made a little fort with them, or a prison for the dog, or I’d arrange them by height or weight or color. My dad said he loves me and we go got air together. 

My mother liked tea, but my dad liked coffee. He said tea was just dirty water and coffee was for strong men and women, like soldiers. Sometimes he would give me a sip but only a sip or, he said, I would get too powerful.  And that was dangerous when you were little. The strangers drank sodas, and they were always loud. Their voice would echo through the high ceilings and off the bare walls and off the tile. And when they came I was told they had to talk business so I’d go to the closet. Sometimes, I’d take the dog and we’d play with the bears and the lions and, I had a unicorn, and the books.

The light in the closet was a dome and it had white frost on it. One day, a little scorpion got stuck and, by God, when it tried to crawl out the dome sucked it back down and he’d try again and again, because he was stuck so what would he do? All day, then he’d get tired. And the strangers were yelling, a lot. A month later he was active, and the dome still sucked him in. When the strangers would yell I would get scared and they’d slam stuff and I’d cover my ears. Oh and the dog had fleas and they gave me little bumps all over so I put her in the jailhouse, right under the scorpion.

And my mother started packing again, because apparently we had to go. Sometimes, I would see her crying and they’d say something about money. And the strangers would come and they would yell about money and that scorpion was still stuck in his little dome. My dad still got fresh air every morning, he’d open up the window. My mom would sit in the kitchen on the floor and cross her legs. Drinking tea with her eyes closed. Sometimes, I would crawl into the middle and I would tell her it’s ok. Sometimes, I would throw the dog in the middle, because he made things ok for awhile. Dad told her the tile was really cold, but she didn’t want to move and we didn’t have a couch. My dad would have secrets sometimes and he would whisper for me to come and tell me to hush. And we would hide behind the wall for mom and we would surprise her with hugs and kisses and the old dog would sometimes limp up to us and sniff all around, and I think it made him feel good too. But the strangers would come and they would get louder, and I couldn’t focus on the books. Just the scorpion.

Sometimes, the strangers would break things or take things and things got so loud. So my mother would make sure she had everything put away into boxes. My father gave me a sip of his coffee and I was on his lap and he was stroking my pigtails and he got so close I could feel his breath, which was warm and got in my ear, and see the little holes on his cheek and forehead. He told me if I ever yelled like they did he would personally put me in jail with the dog. The strangers got mad that everything was in boxes and I figured they were slow because not much had been out before. But they would open the boxes one by one, and at first I thought they were helping us unpack so I would go to help too. But then my father would pat my shoulder and I would realize and run upstairs. When I would come down there was stuff all over and a little less boxes. Mom said it was ok and started stuffing stuff back together again. And I wasn’t worried because they were adults and they could handle it, and my dad drank a lot of coffee. When I was tucked in bed and mom was getting ready dad would lean against the wall and look out the same old window and tell her that Texas wasn’t far. But then mom would start talking about Mexico and I hadn't done any geography so I couldn’t chime in.  

Mom threw our stuff in duffel bags. Dad said “any day now”. I didn’t know the hold up. The strangers would come in and go out and they were taking all of our things. One morning, mom woke us up dark and early and in my whole life, it was the only day I remember my dad didn’t get fresh air from the window. He said there would be plenty on the way. He also didn’t drink his coffee, and mom didn’t sit on the floor with her tea, and I didn’t understand. And the only thing that was normal was my pigtails. And we were waiting and waiting but my dad said “he never came”. And the sun was just barely peeking up when the strangers came in. And they were angry, angry about the duffel bags. I thought they needed some tea. And my dad said he would give them whatever and he tapped my shoulder and I went to my closet. As I was going up the stairs the man with the awful, smelly teeth, pulled something out that sent my mom into fits so I went a little faster. I kept the door cracked a little, and it was weird with the window closed. I was watching the scorpion, and ready to pick up the shimmery bear. Then the loudest sounds I had ever hear, they rang through the empty house and shook the ground right beneath me. My dad had held me on his shoulders at the fourth of july while my mom clapped and cheered and it sounded like that but louder. It sounded like the fireworks, but there was no clapping. The dog went crazy, the little old guy yelped and hollered, and then he didn’t. And then I didn’t hear a thing, just a sort of buzzing like those bees you see near the bushes. I wanted to go downstairs and tell my mom it would be ok, but I don’t think that I had had enough coffee for that. And I was thinking that now would be a good time to get some fresh air. I couldn’t hear a thing, but slowly I opened the closet door. My face was sticky, my eyes were blurry. My mouth was filled with slime. The world was swaying at my feet, and it felt like every step I was atop a giant leading me away somewhere nice. Very slowly. I had never opened the window myself, and I tried to do it fast. I think I really needed that fresh air. I’m not the same without it. I looked outside and there was some cops and I think they saw me, but I got the window open by myself. I think they were saying something, but I needed air. I kept going until my feet hit the ledge below, and someone from behind who had a ladder and I’m not sure how it happened but they got me down. And some of the neighbors were peeking out from their windows and doorways, because what else would they do? And the first thing I heard again was, “My god, people need to be careful who they leave their children with!” But I knew that they didn’t understand. 

“Anything else?” asked the officer.

Thinking, I shook my head no. My hair was falling into my face. I shrugged and said, “That’s all I can really remember.”

[elsadaisywrites]

The illusive path to healing: Exploring the persistence of traumatic dreams.

I wake up often covered in sweat. My heart racing, trying to determine if what happened in my dreams was real.

And last night, was the first in a while. I had thought this was an issue I conquered.

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 Supposedly, rooming with my boyfriend, a man moves into a room upstairs. He’s older, and yes, looks familiar to me. Act’s familiar, too. 

He was white, and scruffy, His hands were calloused and his shirt was dirtied. 

 I had a drink with him, trying to get to know my new roommate, and he admits to drugging me. I don’t remember a thing after he lays me in his bed. Someone out of the corner of my unmoving eye laughed at me laying so still, then he shuts the door.

The feeling of waking up and knowing something happened. Like blacking out when you’re too drunk, and waking up with a road rash. Not even remembering, but imagining.  

Moving my body out of his twin bed. The gut feeling of seeing him laughing at me. 

Scared to squeeze my legs together. My public area throbbing and swollen and dry and burning.

Next, the fear of trying to get away from this man i lived with. Sneaking around, trying to get into my car. Still having to live with him. 

Somehow, he drugged me again and I was paralyzed, but awake this time. And he went on about how fun it was to dress his “little Elsa.” 

Long white socks, a vintage flowing dress, things that I’d never wear. 

Again, familiar. 

And the next day, the crying. Wanting to get rid of a thing that a surgery doesn’t exist for. 

Crying about how what is done is done, and the past is the past. But instead of making you feel better that puts you in the darkest place of your mind.

A recurring dream I’m forever thankful I don’t get anymore, was one that took place in my freshman year college dorm.

I’d be laying on my back in my twin sized lifted bed. My blue duvet that I picked out with my dad made neatly underneath me. 

My book is in my hands and I am fully immersed. A man comes in, and he looks at my legs. I can’t remember exactly what I used to say, but something along the lines of, “Yeah, sure, whatever gets you off dude.”

Lifting my legs above my head, he would begin to eat me out. (TMI?)

I feel nothing, and continue to read. He taps me, and I look up. He has no face. 

The faceless man points at my leg while I feel glued to the bed, and he snaps one leg off. The best description is a twisting motion, and a crunching sound, like he were breaking a crab leg. I am trying to scream but my screams are small and ignored. He snaps the other off.

The list of dreams I incur is numerous. I was almost diagnosed with a nightmare disorder, before my psychiatrist decided a better diagnosis was PTSD. 

I have dreams about my mom, childhood, regrets, inner fears. However, I think none compare to the amount of sexual nightmares I get.

The question: Why do i still get these dreams? Is not really one I have been prepared to answer. It’s painful, and uncomfortable. I didn’t even like typing what I just wrote. 

The question above brings up another painful, complicated question.

Have I not processed enough? I thought I had for a long time. I decided that to ruminate over things I desperately wanted to put behind was pointless. I mean, just move on. Why was this such an issue? 

Id ask myself: At what point is processing self harm? This was the wrong question to ask. Because I wasn’t really processing anything. I was just letting myself become succumbed by memories and feelings.

I just really want to be done. For the processing to be over and to feel better already.

The issue is, these themes in my dreams come from real life, traumatic memories. 

I refuse to address a lot of my trauma. My body and my mind make me remember. 

In these dreams, multiple memories and events are combined into one little bite sized terrifying movie. Ruining whatever day they occur on.

Yeah, I was drugged once, but I was ok in the end. Nothing bad happened, as far as I know. But it was scary, and I’d never think to “process” it. How do you even do that?

Yes, the man in the dream who raped me, was a man I dated. A man who did scare me, who did not respect my boundaries. A man who was much older. 

The faceless man is also a familiar man to me. My stoic nature letting him do what I think he wants to do, what would please him. My screaming and lost limbs a symbol of what it was doing to me. 

Getting dressed in clothes I would never wear is reminiscent of a teacher I had in high school, who would always make me change clothes. Not because of a dress code violation, just because she didn’t like what I wore. (Yes, she did say that.)

But I can’t speak on it too deeply. I am scared. Judgment, insecurity, regret, pain. They all make me want to shut up. Even now, the pit in my stomach is telling me to stop.

But all I want to do is talk about it. So… it isn’t over processed. 

Do you see how little I know what I am doing?

Alright, so I googled it. Good ol’ google is always there for me <3

Lets see where I went wrong.

The Royal College of Psychiatrists says to firstly “give myself time.” It’s been a long time dude. Next.

“Talk about the event.” 

No, I thought I processed much of my trauma. I journaled. I tried to open up to others, but often I am not able to divulge what is needed to “process.” I was in therapy for years, and I liked her, but somehow we never got around to processing my trauma, even though i did ask many times. Maybe I am resentful for that, but I digress.

Who would I talk to? The little I have shared makes people uncomfortable. If it doesn’t, my fear of “trauma dumping” or second handedly traumatizing someone weighs on me. I do have close friends, but why put this on them? 

Maybe, I also don’t want them to know. I am embarrassed, and don’t want people to see me differently. I am also scared I can’t reciprocate when the time comes. I’d try, but what if I can’t? What If I already haven’t. 

I tried to open up to my boyfriend about my co-dependent high school relationship. 

He listened, he was sincere, I talked it out. 

Okayyyyyy… I couldn’t decide if I felt better. Even now, a couple weeks later, I don’t know if it helped. Maybe I need to do it often? Or to multiple people?

This brings me to step 3. “Speak to others that have experienced the same thing as you.” Okay, what the fuck?

How? 

I scoured the internet for a sexual assault survivor group. I knew they would be engaging and sincere, but I had (still do) this itching feeling that after I share my story they would collectively share a look. 

I did find a group. But I am still scared to go, even though it’s on zoom. Sue me. I have anxiety.

What I did do, was go on Reddit. This is how every horror story starts, I get it. I found groups of people who were kinda like me, I guess? I even made a lot of memes about my traumas which I shared, and they were quite popular (I am blushing, if you can’t tell).

Yeah, it helped I think. I am not sure if I want to continue though, I may have hit a wall there.

The issue? Reddit somehow made me feel more isolated. 

Four: “Ask for Support”

I remember telling my grandmother in high school, when I was on the brink of suicide, that I was depressed. She told me blankly, while walking away, “You’re not depressed.”

You could say it’s hard for me to open up to people now. 

How could they even support me, when it’s an internal struggle? I continue on with my life, just like many others do, and asking for support with a task that I might need is too big of an ask.

Five. “Avoid Spending Lots of Time Alone.”

Asshole, some of us don’t have a choice, ok!

Six: “Stick to your routine”

What if trauma started so young, there isn’t a routine to return to?

Seven: “Consider seeking professional help”

I did. I was in therapy for four years. I saw a psychiatrist. I read self-help books. All that. 

Eight: “Notice how you’re feeling”

Not good. Sometimes I’m ok. 

Nine: “Ask for support from your employer”

No.

Ten: “Take Care”

Thank you.

Eleven: “Avoid Consuming too Much Media About the Event”

N/A

Ok, so I’m going to go back to step two: Talk About the Event.

My point in all this, is how difficult it is to just feel better. The advice given is simple, and I am sure it helps, but difficult to apply. I’ve been diligent, too!

Like I said, my nightmares take inspiration from real-life events. Something I have come to realize is, those events don’t just affect me in my sleep. 

Getting better is a daily struggle, and I’ll probably have nightmares for years, but one day, I won’t.

Thanks for reading. :) 

[elsadaisywrites]

My Nightmares and Why They Make Me Want to Talk

I think its cliche to say, “I’ve just always had a passion for writing!” Can you see me coyly blushing?

I do want to write, and I want people to read my writings. Sharing my thoughts and what goes on in my head makes me feel a little less alone, maybe?

An outlet is needed. I think my joy of writing makes me scared to write. I want to be good at it, but that sometimes keeps me from doing it at all.

Nightmares have somewhat plagued my life, albeit on and off. It can be weirdly isolating, and I cannot relate at all to people who say they don’t even get dreams. It can be somewhat isolating, and often times they ruin my hecking day.

But... dare I say, writing is my passion. Whatever I do, I always end up writing. It soothes an otherwise unreachable part of my soul.