The featured image is Josef Sudek – Morning Trolley, Prague. I discovered it on the new app, ArtStack which you should get if you have any interest in art and photography. This picture reminds me of the Robert Frost Poem “Acquainted With The Night” which you’ll find on the Poem Hunter app. Doesn’t my home screen look cultured? I only really like a piece of art if it reminds me of a poem of a book. Words are my paintings, said Voltaire, or something like that.
I didn’t mention earlier that I’ve finished with Pieta.
When I say “finished” I don’t mean we had a falling out – “I’m finished with that crowd!”; that they kicked me out – “Ok, Dotty, enough is enough”; or that I decided “I’m grand, sure I’m fine now, just had a little moment”. They’re a charity and as such there’s only so much they can offer and they already went over the official amount of time they’re supposed to assign. I came to the end of my sessions but they insist it’s a swinging door and should I need them, I’m welcome back anytime. I can’t thank them enough. I would actually have literally (bet you didn’t think I could get both those redundant words into such close proximity) been adrift in a sea of Irish beurocracy and health care stalemate.
On my last visit, I decided it was time to call the RCC. Not that it was solely my decision as I had prompting from many sources. I knew I wouldn’t do it on my own so I did it from Pieta. It was odd. Very odd. Surreal. Like I was phoning on someone else’s behalf. Maybe she was someone else, this girl that The Thing That Happened happened to. And all that followed.
Get this, there’s a four month waiting list for the initial assessment.
Can you imagine how many women and men they see in a day? Multiply that by five days and that by sixteen, maybe seventeen, weeks. How is this still happening to so many people? It made me so mad, not for me, I can wait, I’ve hung on in there this long I might as well stick around for the fine weather, but for everyone who this shitty thing happens to, especially those way worse off than me, of which there are many. Imagine what some women and children and men have been through and they have to wait four months after making that awkward, vomit-inducing call?
It just goes to show you.
It just goes to show you what?
How fucked up a society we live in.
I felt very disillusioned, angry and afraid after that call.
I’m not sure I understood the softly spoken woman properly. I was a bit dumbstruck – my words don’t come easily when I have to speak them. She tried to explain to me about the Child Protection Act and that my first three sessions will be about my position in naming and reporting. I freaked out because at first I thought I would be forced to. She assured me I would not but it seemed like if I don’t, after three sessions they can’t offer me more help. Is this the case? I’m too afraid to ask. I’ll never name him. I just couldn’t. It’s too long ago. Nobody would believe me. There’s too much history. So I don’t know where that leaves me.
After the call, I started analysing my later relationships and I kept coming back to one other. I won’t say which. And I’ve had plenty. There was one incident – I think I’ve mentioned this somewhere before, maybe briefly – it was always there in the back of my mind as a pitiful thing, a sad tear streaked face and a limp and skinny body with no will to fight but a resistance in pulling my jeans up and a “no, not now” but it went on. I had no energy to fight and part of me wanted to be hurt and used. Another couple of times, the strong arm around my neck, not enough to black out, just enough to leave the faintest of marks but enough to have me pulling at that arm and verbally acknowledging that it was hurting me, and scaring me. Why did I let myself be treated like that? Why did I think that was ok? Normal? What was expected of me. Be weak. Take it. Shut up. This is erotic. It wasn’t erotic for me, it was sore. And scary.
This has been floating around like a clumsy old rusty barrel on an otherwise picture perfect stream for the last week or so. I think that’s part of why I didn’t want to write. I’m so deeply ashamed that I didn’t learn from the first time. That I normalised this shit. That I didn’t fight harder. That yet again, there’s more fucking drama. Do I attract it, do I create it? Is it me and nobody else who conjures up the crap?
I’m not suicidal. That’s always a plus. I am however craving silence and open spaces and basic living away from EVERYTHING and almost everyone. There’s so much noise in my head I need a wide vacuum to absorb it all. The Scottish highlands, a deserted beach, an African plain. Somewhere I’m unreachable but everyone knows I’m safe.
So maybe I should be in a psychiatric hospital?
Four months is too long… Please donate if you can: