Somedays

 I live again. Again and again and again. 

"How was your *insert xtian holiday here*?" 

"It was shitandyou?"

There's the things you recall, the memories that imprinted on you, made the impact. The ones that you think about and smile as you recall. You choose to remember whatever you like. The thoughts that come and go like fireworks, lighting up your mind as you cascade through each one. Ah, that one. And that one, too. 

I woke up feeling. I usually do. Some days hang heavy. They weigh on me and although my eyes are open. My schedule is expecting. I am responsible. The days are weighted in my feet. I feel the need to sit. To speak short and simply. I walk like a shell. Carrying myself to the next day, hoping the feeling goes away. It hits me every holiday. Like a pile of bricks to the throat. Closing me in until I cannot breathe. Every time we were meant to be happy. We were meant to do things. There was always a fight. There was always a fight. There was always a fight. There was always. A. Fight. It was always my fault. I was always to blame. This holiday is horrible and it's all your fault. I don't even want to be here. This is all because of you. You put me through this feeling and now it's all your fault. There was always a fight. 

I stare straight into space, like a dead china doll. Recalling the times. The times that I pleaded. I apologized. I even fought back. I was always bubbling over with emotions. I was always trying to sweep up the broken pieces. The words that hung heavy, I was trying to soften them. To fade them away. 

The feelings remain. There was always an apology. Right at the door. I would wipe away my tears. Try to fix my mascara. Try to calm myself down. Try to pretend I was fine. Try to let everything go. Try to just. Keep the peace. 

I'm left with the feelings. Every holiday. Every vacation. Every birthday. Every time that things were okay, they weren't really. 

I think about what your best friend said to me when he asked to meet me for a beer and talk. After I told you I wanted off the roller coaster. After I said I was done being on the emotional roller coaster. I wanted off. Now. Forever. Permanently. He asked me if there was any way I would be willing to make it work. I laughed. Maniacally. No. No. No. Fuck no. Hell no. Fucking hell no. I just started to finally stop believing it was my fault, and I started believing in myself and I'm not turning back.

I deal. I deal with everything. One third of my life was constantly up and down and all around. I was verbally beaten to a pulp. I dealt. I thought I was loved. I thought it was how things were. How relationships were. I was taught this. People are just going to put me in a box. A cage with no key. I am forced to be here behind their bars, they don't see that there is only one wall. There is only the wall they set for me. I can walk away. I didn't know it either. I stayed there, holding onto the bars. Then I discovered, there's a whole world out there where people aren't like this. Where I am allowed to be free. To live. To breathe. To laugh, to enjoy holidays. To smile and not be asked to cry. 

Now. Now I am here. Now I am here and there was always a fight and now there is no fight so sometimes I find myself feeling the fight. I feel like there will be a fight and I brace myself and I get sad and I stuff it down because the fight will come sure enough, no matter how long I have to wait. It's coming.

It's coming.

It's coming.

I know it.

The fight.

It's coming

But the fight doesn't come anymore.

I left. I left. I left. The fight isn't here any longer and somehow I still feel it. Like a record on repeat, it cycles and circles and it keeps skipping over the part where I get to move on, because I've been conditioned.

Now, I plead. I beg. I wait and I wait. I cannot live like this. In constant waiting for the other shoe to drop. I have to heal, to mend. To fix what was wrong. To analyze. I have absent parents. I am an absent parent. The cycle is cyclical and I stuff it down. Deep deep down. Waiting for the moment that I have when I drive myself to work. Then I can cry, I guess. A good scheduled time where I am alone and safe and no one else can see me or hear me and no one else is watching me or will ask how I am or bother me. They can't. Because I am in my bubble. I'm in the car and I'm alone and that's just the way it is. The way I feel safe. The way I can move forward. I let it out and I come into work and I smile and I tell people how lovely they are and I do my work and I put in my helpful opinion and I say my endearing anecdotes. And I keep my head down and I keep going.

Because. It's how I have survived my whole life. Pretending I don't have feelings and I don't exist. Not really. Not truly. I can just fade away into the background. Into the abyss. Aloof, but pleasant. There I go.