Therapy

It has been awhile since I have been on here.

Hi, how have you been doing?

Life hit with severed wounds, things transpired into the new, I transformed into my present being, in which others seem to put down, but the time just continued to fly. The time continued to run, and the time continued to carry on. Time follows the universal rhythm, tick..tock..tick…tock..tick…tock. Time feels like a movie, a book, as if one is a body within a dome. One scene with a character. Next scene with the same topic, but with different characters. The interrogation of a suspect, in which the closest people to me are aware. Next scene, in his car on the phone, relaying the information to someone else for analysis.

I do not know how to transcribe this information, yet I will do the best I can. Does anyone ever feel as if there is a weight? This torment rushing up from their inner world. People do not know what they do not see. The catch is that they think they do. The severed wounds…

How does one recognize themselves upon the reflection as the eyes are blurry with tears? There is no resemblance to anyone being there.

The silent battle.

Everything in life reminds her of the past. The scars on her body, the emotional wounds that are fresh and constantly made, unable to breathe. The collapse of a lung. She knows that these will not be the last. The past actions of others cloud the vision that may arise about the future, or whatever one lies left underneath the pure blanket of darkness. It is hard participating in any possible sign of normality and happiness, before it has even reached that point in time. It is ruined before the pace has begun. The fear of everything, the utter incompetence of wanting to be accepted. Acceptance does not exist. There is a fear of the outside world, as her home is her safe place, where she does not have to battle anything, only herself.

As readers go between the lines, I hope you know this is my safe place.

There have been many battles within the thing we call life, the ropes we climb, the levers that are hard to pull. My very first memories are like a stack of Polaroid pictures. The colors are hazy; none of the scenes are in themselves, a full memory. I would close my eyes because I knew what was coming. Before they closed, I held my breath, like a swimmer ready to dive into a deep ocean. I could never watch when his hands came toward me; I only patiently waited for the harsh sound of the strike. I would always remember his eyes right before I closed my own: pupils wide with rage, cold, and dark eyebrows clenched with hate. When it finally came, I never knew which fist grabbed me first, what words made me feel worth nothing, or which blow sent me to my knees, through feeling and touch, because I could not bring myself to open my eyes. They stayed closed because I didn’t want to see what he had promised he would never do again. In the darkness of my mind, I could escape to a paradise where he would never reach me. I would find again the haven where I kept my hopes, dreams, and childhood memories. His words could not devour me there, and his violence could not poison my soul because I was in my own world, away from this reality. When it was all over, and the only thing left were bruises, tears, screams, a large absence of self worth, and flesh that was hot with fear. I felt a relief run through my body. It was so predictable. For there was no more need to recede, only to recover. There was no more reason to be afraid; it was over. He would feel sorry for me, promise that it would never happen again, hold me, and say how much he loved me. This was the end of the pain, not the beginning, and I believed that everything would be all right.

Like so many innocent, selfless individuals, , I forgave him. The pain dispersing through my body reminded me that I was strong and all I needed to do was heal. I would cry without tears at first, the sadness inside me so intense, that the hollowness in my heart would weigh me down. My heart’s deep hollowness was so immense, that the loudest shrie…

My will and motivation was to get an education, better myself, and become a strong and intelligent woman. I guess that individuals have different visions, but that does not mean for the others to dismiss or degrade the version I see. We may all be human, live in our bodies, but the paths that are set for us, are up to our own perception. There are opinions that hinder the ability to follow through with the desire. As one goes through trauma, there is trauma that follows. A sequence of events hooked by chains that may be invisible to some.

If someone takes it upon themselves to communicate that there is a chain of trauma being endured, do not belittle the trauma, do not use it in arguments, do no ask questions, “Why wouldn’t you leave?”, “Oh, you should've….”.

Drained beyond belief. Drained beyond communication and detail. Drained more than what she can understand from herself.

Since we have dove in, lets dive into deeper waters, and run away from the shallow. I may be intelligent, but I fail to understand multiple things. These failures embed themselves further than what the feeling of one’s first heartbreak. The inner critic is always loud, but why do you all have to make it worse?When you imagine a good memory the nervous system is calmed, feel good brain chemicals are released, you do yourself positive good, you start to make you own natural medicine for anxiety. In time, you begin to be able to manage your emotions better and then to help others manage theirs. Whereas you were once lost in a storm, you become a lighthouse, shining out to sea.

I think of life as a spinning wheel, good days and bad, however sometimes there seem to be more of the unwanted. Why? She is the bullseye and everyone is lucky to have hit her. The bullseye never gets tired, just more sits there, takes the crap, revs up, and stays strong for another.

She is tired of being the bullseye.

Stories have multiple sides. People have different perspectives. There is too much talk.

Talk is good, talk is a gift. A gift. Talk can also devour and hurt. Stories have multiple sides. As I write , I realize that it is good for me. Talking to myself , cuz she is all one really has. A devil and an angel. An angel fighting the fire across the collarbone. Who is she and who will she be? She will find the answer , despite the constant …. that is endured.

You are beautiful. You will become something , despite what others say.

I am me. She is me.