I have not been in my right mind.
I've been nothing more than a reckless mess.
When I think about my past, which I've been doing a lot, I want to brush it all off. I keep thinking that what I've been through shouldn't affect me as much as it has, I shouldn't feel like I've been traumatized for life, and yet I have.
I keep blaming myself. Because I've always been so insecure & unsure. I've always been a follower. I always stopped fighting, eventually.
But I've always been so ready to die. I've never loved myself or cherished my life. I thought the world was better off without me. I had no sense of purpose, no real will to live. So why would I be anything but passive?
There have been so many moments over the last decade or so that I never fully processed. I pushed the memories to the darkest part of my mind, hoping they'd cease to exist. Out of sight, right? No such luck.
What the hell am I talking about?
I watched my mother die, watched my family fall apart and I've watched myself lose control.
I don't think my story has any merit because I've never been battered to a pulp. I've never gotten more than a couple small bruises. No bloody noses, no black eyes. But I would never accept this rationalizing from anyone else.
How many times have I been raped? I lost track. The nights I pleaded, the nights that I begged. My noes were never enough. They all began to blur together after awhile.
I've been slapped, pushed, choked. Held against my will. Threatened to be killed. One wrong move and I'd have had a bullet through my body.
There are some stories I have never told.
I can forgive all the attacks on my body.
It's the verbal abuse that still haunts me, the broken promises, the shattered trust.
But I'm such a glutton for punishment.
I am nothing more than an open wound