Jul 112019
 

Sitting on the outside while feeling like I am on the inside of all the secrets the world has to offer. I stumble. I fall. I second guess myself. I look around and have absolutely no clue if my life is real or a story of fiction, words on the pages of some book that is being written as I stumble to understand this nexus.

How does one know when the world is using them? When all of the hurt that they feel doesn’t need to be felt at all? And, how does one swallow down that hurt and see the bright side, looking for the silver lining in every situation when the situation remains stagnant and oh so incredibly different every single day? Will I know when it is real or when I should walk away?

You see, once you’ve been gutted, cut from sternum to spleen and had everything torn from you, figuratively, it is hard to ever trust a touch, a feeling, an emotion for what it is. This voice in the back of your mind always sits in anxious-wonder waiting for the ball to drop, the lies to be exposed. How many people can be in on one lie? How many people can hold onto a dozen or more lies? How many records can be hidden in a world where we have freedom of information? Am I looking too deep to find answers when I have what should be the truth sprawled out in front of me?

It is almost as though I am performing an autopsy on life itself rather than the dead. Making my Y incision and peeling back the layers, looking for blemishes, flaws, things that I was told weren’t there. Seeking answers to questions that no one ever asked. Presuming the innocent are guilty before I begin my investigation in the first place. Allowing myself to be pulled down and tortured by the hurt that I unveil, hurt that wouldn’t have existed at all had I left the flesh alone and not sought problems that didn’t exist outside of my mind.

The mind is a powerful thing. Probably the most powerful thing. We can make nearly anything manifest if we will it to, subconsciously or with intent. Some are great at using this gift to live a life of intent, to create and not harm. Others, like myself, are great at feeling the pain of the world and allowing it to pull down, hard until I am the bloody mess.

Do I want to be a mess or the one that speaks the wise words and influences others to be wise with their time, to live an intentional life? I personally don’t feel any amount of infinite wisdom can be worth the air used to speak if we haven’t walked through our own broken dreams, felt our own brokenness, held our insides in our hands and begged to be saved and to die, all at the same time.

Inner conflict may be the only thing that keeps us looking forward, seeking answers, questioning the unquestionable and living a life that seeks knowledge and power rather than pretending we have it all figured out.

I promise I have nothing figured out. Not a single thing. But I live in love, I hurt in love. I am the most authentic version of myself that I could possibly be. I bare my scars to the world and I do not fear the world’s judgment as each and every scar is a reflection of the shattered mirror that shows my life. The broken raw version of me, not the airbrushed version I wish the world could or would see.

Who am I? That’s a question I have been seeking an answer to for nearly 20 years and if anything, I am further now from knowing than I ever had been in the past. For the first time though, that feels strangely “okay”. I am far from content and yet I am good exactly where I am – performing autopsy’s on my own life searching for the answers to… I don’t know.

Dec 192018
 

I look down and see the moon
Reaching to the window
I will be close soon.

Grabbed back from that innocently selfish step
I’m wondering why the sky is below
Where am I that it’s all upside down?

Tenderness, pain, and emotion without sound
Living life while begging to die
How am I swimming in the sky?

My faith is real yet I fear I am not
A mass of carbon without any thought
Just one step and it’s do or die.

Why won’t you release the shackles
Please, just let me try
Forever I’ll be yours, here or there.

If it doesn’t work what will you care?
And if I float into the Heavenly abyss
I’ll come to you and tell you what you’ve missed.

Dec 032018
 

It has been a good long time since I have put words to the blinking cursor. I don’t know why exactly I stopped writing, or rather, why the words stopped flowing, but I think it has to do with loss.

I just keep losing in this game called life. I keep feeling the slashing pain of being gutted by the insides that are supposed to hold onto life and grow the future. What will the future hold when it cannot manifest within the womb that is meant to nurture it?

What will stem from a society run by people largely created in labs? Where our mothers and fathers spend their life savings just to get us here. Will it go to our heads? Will the race to become superior start and end with that money saved and raised to ensure our creation?

Where is God in all of this? Am I God? Is the Dr. God? Is God really the currency we pay that decides life and death for us?

How much money does someone hand to the God that has stopped the blade from slicing too deep, who has stopped an infection from setting in and who has stopped the blood from flowing out before it was too late? How much was that worth?

Is the currency for the numbness that allows me to bleed just to know I am alive the pain and torture I have experienced? The chain that held me all those nights has become the ties that bind me to the past and the past to me, forever.

I don’t know what it is I want. Or what it is I actually feel. I just know that most of the time I am in a stoic place and the other times my heart is racing out of my chest and my anxiety is through the roof. There is nothing predictable about how I will respond, psychologically or physically, to the same thing twice.

Tonight, I have peace in knowing I am not God. I am not the one with the control. I am simply a piece of the puzzle. I can find comfort in that.

Jun 072018
 

Faking it can be easy.
It can also be the absolute most draining thing one will ever do.

It’s like being an actress through most of my waking hours. Smiling when I am spoken to, being polite, saying everything is great, flirting and doing life, in general, all while there is this demon inside of me, telling me I’ve got to beware.

Beware of the guy who said hello, he could rape you, you are a stupid girl, don’t you know?

I have the scars, inside and out. On my wrist too many to count. I am the pale girl who has had too much sun in an attempt to appear a little more healthy. My eyes are often glistening bright from the tears I hold back, or dark and soulless as I give up the fight.

The house is trashed, and I mean trashed because my motivation is lacking. I look around and see the piles of stuff, the dust and I know it’s a fast job to do but can’t make myself do it. I write the lists and those do help. Seeing the checked off boxes of things seems to be a decent motivator.

My meds keep me overweight, so it’s more than easy for me to pass on food or forget to eat and no one even notices. There are days where I binge and get 2000-3000 calories (can we say pizza?) and there are far more days where I am down in the few hundred range at best. I don’t worry about my weight, it’s just another thing to do. Cooking drains me a ton. Even the easy things. Thinking about what to make is like doing an algebra exam. I try to remember to have a protein shake every day, so at least my body gets that.

I had a flashback earlier today about the house we were in. The basement had a sump-pump and there was a cement ridge built up around it with wood covering it. It always reminded me of a coffin. This morning the nightmare/flashback was based on that hole, only in this daydream, he threw me in and closed the lid. Laying there I wondered how long it would take for them to raise the lid to find my body.

PTSD is real. I die 1000 different ways every single year, all in my head, all in traumatic ways that feel oh so real. Much of the time, when I am startled out of my head, I wish that I hadn’t fought so hard to be the survivor girl, that I would have been better off if I had just not lived.

I’ve always been one to have extremely vivid nightmares and flashes of things while awake. When I was little I wouldn’t sleep because I could hear and feel planes flying overhead and dropping bombs. I remember looking out the window one day and panicking when I saw Saddam Hussein’s face staring back at me, the war hadn’t even begun and I am in Canada, and more importantly, no one was even there, just the sunshine.

Once I was held and raped and used and sold, all of those things became even worse, more intense. Because then I realized that evil really did exist. That it was alive and well. That I could be a victim, because I was a victim, and the victim still lives inside of me with extreme guilt. With intense fear and with a logic that doesn’t make sense to anyone but me.

I take a half dozen different prescribed meds and they take the edge off, but they don’t make it go away. I spent years in therapy and eventually had to quit going, the anxiety of having to bring the negative thoughts up each week was just as bad as keeping them inside. The last time I went, I left and cut my wrist in the parking lot. And, I had a great therapist whom I loved. I was ashamed.

My reports say that I am a masochist, among other things. I don’t argue with that at all. When you are taken at 15 and enter into an abusive situation with no escape, it is easy for you to become accustomed to being punished. When I feel like I have hurt someone, or I am useless or no good, the masochist comes out big time and demands the pain. I need it in order to know I am alive.

“And I don’t want the world to see me
‘Cause I don’t think that they’d understand
When everything’s meant to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
And you can’t fight the tears that ain’t coming
Or the moment of truth in your lies
When everything feels like the movies
Yeah you bleed just to know you’re alive”

~Iris, Goo Goo Dolls

 

Jun 062018
 

Panic attacks have been progressively getting worse. The past comes back and haunts me in the weirdest places. I think I have become a bit of a hermit in a way. My phobias and anxieties over certain things have progressively become worse over the last year or so. I think when I lost the baby I lost more of myself.

The idea of ringing the dr for an appointment causes my heart to speed up, the cracked or broken tooth I have hasn’t been checked out or fixed because I can’t stand the idea of feeling trapped in a clinical setting, even though I’ve known my dentist my entire life. I struggle to even bring my kids, but for them I can do it, because I have too.

Having to go into stores and pick things up or run errands like getting the mail drains me, like a soul sucker drinking me up from a giant straw.

My fight or flight has never left, but I did go a good year or two without cutting myself, now I bare more scars and the mere idea of certain things causes suicidal thoughts to flash into my head as the way out of something as simple as running an errand.

Mom helps me a ton. She is the one who goes places with me and while I can still force myself, it really drains me until I am sick with migraines and feel like death has already come.

When I got pregnant over a year ago I had stopped several of my medications and was handling things “okay”, not great, not even perfect, but “okay”. I thought I could push through, but have realized that pushing through isn’t living life, I am fearing life.

I got up to close the curtains the other night and sheer panic kicked in. I ended up sobbing, hard, until I fell asleep. My fears of things I love dying are extremely high. The idea of any sort of change is paralyzing.

I started two of my meds again yesterday. I know that with them I will be tired, likely to gain weight, and have less spoons to help me through the day. But, without them, I don’t know how much longer I can keep pushing myself through these murky waters.

I often feel like I am in a state of mania, where I am hyper and unstoppable, followed by a depression that keeps me in bed for several days as I recoup that energy that was wastefully spent. I’ve never been one to be balanced. I struggle to even know what happiness is. I see glimpses of it, but I am not familiar with it.

If anything, happiness is an enemy, taunting me about what could have been and never was. I envy it. I loathe it. It is what I am not.

The degenerative disc disease and arthritis in my back, hips and pelvis are a constant reminder of the trauma my body has experience and it’s protesting against, standing, sitting, laying for too long is a painful one. Tylenol will likely kill me before anything else.

In summary, I have been, and I still am, a rancid mess.

 

Sep 192017
 

I sit and want to curse the cursor that is blinking at me, taunting me to express the thoughts that are on my mind. The flick-flick a mockery of my current state. Confused, angry, exhausted, physical pain that nears a 10 and medications that don’t want to help me, nothing has ever helped me, nothing ever will.

The swelling that woke me 6 times in the night still leaving remnants of stiffness in my hands -the fingers that could once fly across the keyboard tapping away about 100 words a minute seem sluggish and nearly useless. I know it’s not even bad, yet. I also know it will be worse. My body deteriorating as I age is inevitable.

If you know me, you know I push people away. I don’t trust myself to trust others, not with my heart. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I give it wholly, but then I panic and my fight or flight kicks in because in my life everything good has come to an abrupt end. I try to be ahead of the game, ahead of the soon to come let downs of pain of abandonment and loneliness that only love can inflict, and I become the one to run first. Heavily guarded like an armoured tank. The weapons on my tongue, the vault around my heart.

Yeah, so I am not here to preach or talk about tv or current affairs. I am not here to tell myself it will all be okay. I am not here to tell you it will be either. I am simply here to brain dump. To get the feelings out of my head so that they become real – at least to the page.

I want to be a person of the page again. Someone who writes it all out regularly. Who counts their thousand gifts and surpasses them each year, because, let’s face it there are more than a thousand things in a year that we should be grateful for. I don’t know why I stopped.

I’ve stopped a lot of things.

I’ve stopped looking forward to later. All I see is the blood red splatter that signifies straight up pain.

I’ve stopped being hopeful because as Spencer says in Pretty Little Liars “Hope breeds eternal misery”.

I’ve stopped basking in the sun and enjoying its warmth on my skin.

It’s like I had a taste of life and suddenly lost my appetite. No rhyme or reason. Though, I suppose there are plenty of reasons, many of which I haven’t processed yet.

A grief that has become all-encompassing that eats at me moment by moment.

The pain and discomfort my body and mind experienced in those days of loss that I tucked under the figurative rug to try and keep others from being hurt, maybe even not wanting to share my one little treasure with the world. All mine. Pure selfishness. But, I loved… and it hurt.

It all hurts, every single day.

I won’t ever get over loss. I won’t ever move on or get over it like many suggest. Maybe because I don’t want to, maybe because letting go of the past scares me because I don’t ever want to not bring those preciously painful memories with me. They are all I have.

Life is going to bring you down, and yet that pain is all I know, it’s all I have.

I am #Voiceless

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May 292017
 

The pen and the paper have met many times over the last weeks, but the cursor continues to be cursed, blinking tauntingly at my weathered soul, begging for me to reveal to the world the depths of the holes that penetrate so far and wide that not even light can traverse the jagged mass.

Every breath I take hurts my soul, knowing its breath that I no longer want. My pain in my body can be dulled by the medications, but the pain in my soul has nowhere to go, nothing to take it away. I find myself in doubt. Questioning existence, torture, pain and beg the question why?


I’ve searched psychology books, history books, the Bible and my own faith and all that stands out to me is when Job says, “I have no rest, for trouble comes” because trouble always comes.

Only, now I ask myself, am I the trouble? Am I the cause of the pain? Do I bring this hurt upon myself? Do I beg it into my life instead of goodness and strength? Have I subconsciously killed away the children that once grew in my womb? Washing them out to punish myself… Can the subconscious mind even do that? Can mind really kill matter? Can mind end the life of another, stop the heart from having another beat?

Did I do this to myself? I can’t help but believe I did.

I deserve to be punished. I deserve to hurt. I deserve to choke on the tears of grief that can no longer be swallowed back. “I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel”, and the saddest part is I often don’t.

I am reckless. I am on the edge of a cliff unable to step back from the dangerous edge and begging to be pushed forward into the ending gravitational pull.

No one understands me because I simply don’t understand myself.

Life with depression, anxiety, and feeling like your value is only held in the hands of others is no way to live at all. Some days, I wonder if I am living at all. Most days I know I am not.

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