I'm broken. I've been broken for a long time. I thought I was okay. For a time. I thought that I was okay to just... move forward. Move on. To get up and do things and get my life in order. And then I have no idea how, but I'm back relooking at my past. Reliving things that I should be over by now. Or maybe that's the thing about being broken. Once someone takes innocence from you, you can't ever get it back.
Sometimes, it's all right. Sometimes, it's okay. It's just not today. I feel melancholy. I feel stagnant. Like I was a train. A bullet. Some drive deep inside that needed to burst forth and thrive... and then... I slowed down. The momentum just eventually caused me to come to a halt. And I had used all the energy. The sudden outburst was everything. And I feel like nothing now. It makes me wonder how can I fix it? I spent so long trying to fix other people, not understanding I just needed to work it out for myself. I don't know what I was thinking. I guess I was just escaping. But, now I'm not. I'm here. I'm here and I want to work on things and I just don't know what it is. Where is it? How deep seeded is the truths that I need to uncover? The tiny door inside the tiny room. The infinite fucking rooms that I walk through. To dig deeper. Into the next onion slice. When do I get to the core? To the real meat that is me? My heart? My truth? The part of me that can't be broken? I find some layers that are seemingly unscathed and then... more layers burnt. More scars that need time. That need to regrow. Become new and pink again. So that I can open the next door. See through the next part of me that I had hidden. I scraped and bled my way down here and now I just lay on the floor and wait? I just sit here and wonder what it is that I am supposed to do? I don't know if I want to keep opening doors. Trying to find the answers. It's painful. It's raw and ugly. I can't remember the parts of me I loved anymore. I went so far deep to find that I don't like it at all.
There was something I read about how you don't remember the kind of parents you had until you are a parent. That you realize eventually all the fucked up things that your parents did to you because you start to hear their words coming out of your mouth. I hear them. I hear the words that I didn't like when I was little and I am disgusted with myself, firstly, and then with the situation. And then with my parents. With the people who taught me that it was how things were. I not only have to work on my own mind, my own shit, the pain that I went through... but I also have to stop and correct myself from making the same mistakes. I don't want my kids to feel isolated from me. To feel like they have no voice and can't speak to me. I have to then apologize for my reactions while I'm REAL TIME dealing with their shit. It's exhausting.
I get this urge to just consume everything. Anything to get this feeling to go away. The weird hollow that I feel when I think about that room. The one that I haven't been to since I was a kid. The room that is causing me to curl up into a ball and sit the fuck out of life. Check out.
PTSD doesn't go away. You just live with it. Get better at being okay with it. Understanding that it's not your fault if you have episodes.
I am doing that thing. The thing where I can't even write about it. I'm so ashamed of how I lived for so long. I can't even put myself in the writing. I have to disassociate. I have to say "you just live with it." When I mean me. I just live with it. It cracks in like lightning. A flash and suddenly I'm crying. I'm crying and I can't stop. I have a lot on my shoulders. I am trying so hard. But, it's all tumbled down so quickly. Just by the game. The thing that my kid learned from his dad. To play with feelings until the right thing strikes. But, he's just a kid. It breaks my heart over and over again. I can live with it. Because I have to. But, I feel so broken. It's not him. It's not my kid. I just have so much fear that he will be more like that. Like his dad. Like someone who cuts with a knife so deep, you can't see up or down. The spinning in circles. The word salad. It's more than I can take it to think of how he will hurt someone else someday. He hurts me and he hurts his sister and I can't take it to think that she will grow up and think that is how you are treated- because that is what happened to me. I learned to be pushed down and sunken to a level to be molded into a woman who allows this kind of treatment.
I wish I knew how to teach them how to be better. But I don't even know how to be but slightly better than my parents were to me. I'm not perfect. I instigated a lot. I was really super toxic and when there wasn't a problem, I made one. I know who I am. What I've done. I know the needy brat that I can be. I know how bad I was- the worst kind of shit I did. I still didn't deserve that kind of talk. I still didn't deserve to be treated like shit all the time. To have someone put me on a roller coaster everyday. To the point where I couldn't stop. I couldn't stop responding and explaining myself. Spending hours trying to please someone that could never be pleased. I forgot what it was like to be in the word salad. Boy, I remember now. I can't believe you are still pulling this shit though. I really can't. I really can't believe I can't stop falling into the traps. I did my best. I truly did. I'll just lay down for awhile. Maybe I can sleep off the feelings of frustration, shame, anger, spite... maybe I can't.
I used to force myself to write down three good things that happened to me everyday. As a way to come out of it. To put aside my triggers. Focus on the positive. So that I could find my footing and stand up on my own. Instead of being weighed down.
Furniture/Teach/Walk
Comments
Post a Comment