Last week I shared the first part of an essay I’m working on called “Secret Monster.” I was hoping to share the second half this week, but I had to finish my final essay — long overdue — and with launching the Softcore Trauma Discord Server, and living life, I couldn’t get to it. I know I don’t need to justify this to y’all, and yet here I am, explaining myself.
This week I’d like to share some pieces of that essay I submitted, as well as a piece of writing from my archive entitled “The Parts of Monsters: An Autobiography.” I wrote that essay for my intro to creative writing course when I was 23, so over 15 years ago now. This writing, like everything else, is a work in progress, about what it meant to discover that piece of writing.
For those who’re new here, this is my “Wounding/Wanting Diary” series for paid subscribers. If you can’t afford the $5/month for a paid subscription, you can email me at hello@margeauxfeldman.com. I never want money to be an access barrier, and I need to set some boundaries with this writing. Thank you for your understanding.
Because of the nature of what I’m writing about, I want to offer a content note here that will serve for all of this writing. In these entries, you will likely find details of sexual trauma, including rape, sexual assault, sex that occurred while drunk or high or both, grooming, intimate partner violence, and physical assault during sex. Please take care yourself after reading this writing.
There’s a story I hold dearly. In this story, younger versions of me had no idea just how traumatized we were. I wasn’t aware that I was depressed or anxious, that anything was wrong with me. I kept sabotaging relationship after relationship, but didn’t realize that this was a pattern. I wouldn’t gain this insight until my mid-twenties, when I began therapy.
My personal archive interrupts this story – breaks it into pieces.
Diary entry, March 22nd, 1999, age 13: “I was so pissed so I wrote him a note telling him I knew he wanted me dead and that I felt extremely suicidal (which I am).” We could chalk this up to an over-emotional teenager, hormones raging. I would expect that from Freud if I were his patient. Instead, I choose to believe thirteen-year old me when they proclaim their suicidality. This piece of evidence disrupts the story that I was never suicidal. What that really means is that I thought about suicide but told myself I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t have my brother and father suffer another loss. That too, is another form of suicidal ideation.