The last few months have been insanely hectic. With work, covid, and preparing and i preparing for changes that seem to happen when I least expect it. It’s been trying. And my head has, well, had to managed to stay on relatively straight for about 3 months of constant change. But. I suppose everything falls apart eventually.

About two weeks ago, with a stuffy nose, headaches, eye pain, body pain, the whole covid gambit, I felt myself deteriorating. Concerned that I was coming down with the virus, I saw my doctor and she recommended I get tested. Spoiler: though my results haven’t come back, I’m mostly confident that I didn’t contract the virus. But. That’s not what this about.

A few days ago, about a week into quarantine, I started feeling weird. Growing up in a Christian environment and professing the faith for myself, I’ve still massively struggled with the idea of God. Who’s this big guy in the sky? And the fuck won’t be do anything about the shit happening in our world. I run the length of anger and confusion and devastation on a daily basis. And I guess this week it was time for it to rear it’s ugly head.

I began to wonder about the impact of trauma and abuse on my abilities, or lack there of, to trust in this being called God. I looked back on my childhood, the few parts my brain allows me to remember and I began to wonder. Can Stockholm Syndrome be caused by a violent childhood? I tried a quick search on google, but after too many entry questions and not enough emotional wherewithal, I decided against it. I didn’t want to know.

I’ve spent a major pet of my adulthood and even childhood trying to force myself to move forward. To not hold grudges. And I genuinely, truly believed that I’d let so much of it go. I felt no anger to those who hurt me. But a compassion and love that made me cry my eyes out whenever I thought about it. But was it really love? Now I’m not sure. That night, I went to bed, and was immediately flooded with nightmares of my childhood. Things I’d believe to let go.

I woke they next morning, after a fitful night of sleep, in tears. Crying my eyes out in the dark, trying to make sense of my dreams. And all I could think was, why did you hurt me? Why couldn’t you be gentle? Why couldn’t you be kind? Why didn’t you love me? Love me enough to not hurt me? In my dream I’d lost my fucking shit. Screaming and crying and yelling. Willing them to hit me just so I could hit them back. I was so hurt. And I was so angry. I just wanted to be held.

I felt betrayed by the people who I thought were supposed to protect me. And when I realized this, I saw how that thread of betrayal wove it’s way through the entirety of my life. I’ve often felt betrayed by others’ disloyalty. It might be slight but it felt so crushing to me. Because I felt like I wasn’t worth loving. Wasn’t worth fighting for. Wasn’t worth protecting. And even after the abuse, all I’d want was for them to take me back. Accept me. Forgive me. For whatever it was. And the same hands that hurt me embraced me. And as I recognize now, really harmed me. My emotional maturity.

However, I also feel guilty. I feel as if I’m betraying them now. Because people change, and I’ve seen it with my own eyes. But it also hurts. It hurts to the core that this happened. And I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to shame anyone who has hurt me. But. I don’t know if I’ll ever heal if I never talk about it. My life goal has always been to not y’all about the people in my family who have hurt me until they’ve passed. That way I can’t hurt them, while truthfully communicating how I feel. But. I didn’t realize that I was letting myself die in the process.

The last few days I’ve felt a heavy pot on my stomach. Not focused on the feelings much, but not knowing where to go from here. How do I recover? Do I want to? Do I just want to end it all? But that’s selfish. I know it. And even though they’ve hurt me, I don’t want to hurt them. I guess the difference is, when they hurt me I was a stupid kid, on the receiving end on so much fluctuating emotions coming from adults who all I really wanted was to love me. Not for who I could be. But for who I was. Completely imperfect and confused and needing love. I was just a child.

I’m not sure what bruised me harder, the hands and the belts and the hangers. Or the words that were said when they were upset. Or the loneliness that crept into my heart. Desperate to know how I could get them to love me again…without hurting me.



Whenever I’ve written in the past, I’ve always wanted to be light and airy, never too dark. Always redemptive, always hopeful.

Wrap it all up in a big fucking bow.

Glad that my good friend reminded me, I hate fucking bows.

*deep sigh*

I feel like a shell lately. Teetering between spontaneous combustion and completely empty. Numb. I hate the spontaneous combustion. But the numb? Lemme get summa that. Because my emotions have been a rollercoaster.

My flashbacks and nightmares have been getting worse. I feel the pain of what happened. Like i was just flayed in half. I feel it. The panic is back too. I’ve got this disgusting habit of picking and all I can do is pick. And bite my lips. None of it is even slightly attractive. But I’m not sure I even want to be that anymore, or that I even care.

Another weird side effect. The other day I came home from work, and I could hear my heartbeat. I hate the sound. It makes me panic. Then I spiral. So I took 1mg of my Xanax. And holy shit. It was the most calm, most at peace I’ve felt in *months*. Maybe even years? I was numb. The kind that puts you right to sleep, a blank canvas of nothingness.

I feel awful that I loved it. Maybe more so that I crave it. Because I just want sleep. And peace. No nightmares, no shaking. No crying. Just a minute where I’m not on edge.

Because most days I feel like a shell. I’ve prepared myself in advance with conversations and smiles to keep people at bay.

But the other day? That was pure bliss. And I wasn’t wondering if I wanted to die or if I wanted to live. I just existed in that bubble. Feeling nothing. Being nothing. Not really existing. Just.




Happy New Year…

To the broken me. The confused me. The alone me. The me that isolated in the bliss of being safe. The me that craves arms to hold me but instead hold myself. Bruised and tattered and fragile and breaking.

To the me who is called survivor and cringes. To me who held on just a little longer while my peripherals became dark and my heart beat slammed in my ears.

To the me that never felt truly safe. Truly whole. Truly loved. To the me who plastered on smiles miles long if only to find warmth in the ones returned. To the me that believed the best because hope is so tempting to grasp but so devastating to lose.

Happy new year to the me that rings in with silence, in quietness, in solitude. With an ache as heavy as a boulder in my chest and words flying through my head like a file cabinet exploded.

To the me that’s decided a little longer. Just a little bit longer. Just a little while longer.

To the wringing of hands and tear stained cheeks. To the words left unspoken and to the fears still swirling in the pit of my being.

Happy new year to you, sweet girl. To me, sweet girl. Even though you don’t feel happy. Happy new year, anyway.

Because you deserve a little happiness too.