The impulsive, aching parts of me want to walk away from all of this out of spite. My ears are ringing from men telling me what I am, what I am not, what I’m capable of, and my soul throbs from the unfairness of having every mistake I’ve made held before me as an indication of my worth like it’s my fucking judgment day.
I’ve been trying to practice patience. But I have a limit. The strong woman in me says that it’s my right to put up boundaries and to be sick of being trampled, but the broken little girl in me says it is all my fault. I am pathetically insecure in my beliefs of what is “right” or “wrong”, I can’t hear my own intuition over the noise of my dysfunction. I miss solitude. I miss my home being as I left it when I went to work that morning. I miss hearing only my own voice, instead of all this motherfucking feedback.
A mother told me that her baby was *wanted*, that she hoped and prayed and tried to make this known to her child as the child grew. In the same breath that mother told me that if the baby had had Down Syndrome she would have abandoned it at the hospital at birth. I’m exhausted from the dissonance of hypocritical advice.
I never know what your mood is going to be. Whatever I do, it’s not enough, or right, in your eyes. At first I argued, defended myself. When that proved futile I started running away. But then you threw that in my face on top of whatever you were already “mad” at me for, and whatever small relief I’d feel from distancing myself from you temporarily became overshadowed by the bullshit that spewed over me, from you, when I’d return. Now I’m trying to be patient. Trying, probably failing. Why? Because THIS ISN’T ABOUT YOU. I am not about you. My pain is not yours to capitalize on and my joy is not yours to burst. How am I supposed to be patient in the midst of being beaten down? All I can think of to do to fix this is run away for good.
I wish it felt like enough that I know my strength, my history, the loads I carry and my ability to keep moving forward. But when you’re moody, somehow you manage to take that away from me. I’m filled with anger towards you, and disappointment in myself for letting you hurt me. It’s a never-ending cycle and at the end of the day, it probably is my fucking fault. I have no social conflict resolution skills.
Don’t worry, I have just as much disdain for myself as I have for you. I’m an equal opportunity hater.
What would my therapist say… stay put and be uncomfortable, because as much as I feel as though I’m being crushed to death, it really is in my head, and I won’t be crushed. I actually agree with my therapist. I’m just overwhelmed by injustice and hormones and withdrawal and disappointment and the fucking heavy weight that is being alive. Fuck me, maybe I’m not strong. I suppose I mostly resent people calling me weak without actually identifying what *is* weak about me. Nobody likes to be misunderstood, misrepresented, misinterpreted. But I don’t have to take this shit on. I choose to listen to their opinions and I choose to accept their negativity. It’s a choice.
This is unfair. Being alive is unfair. Why the fuck am I bringing this curse upon someone? I probably am unfit. I never thought I’d be unable, or unwilling, to control my urges and my addictions and my outlets for the sake of a new being. And yet here I am, just as impulsive, if not more impulsive, than I’ve ever been… except this time I’m not the only one hurting from it. It makes me sick to feel, think, type out, but not sick enough to change anything. Because it all feels futile, and like a fucking waste, and I have no idea what I’m doing but I’m trying not to run. At what cost, though? When can I just give up and run away from this illusion? I’m tired of making mistakes and I can’t think of the last right thing I did.
I'm tired, let's wash away 