The Truth. In Pieces.
On the first regard, this might seem like nothing special. It’s another outtake from my original-story-project, something I wrote about half a year ago - believe it or not - and minorly edited in the last hour in order to publish it here.
The fact that I added a song to it is not special either. You know me, I have thing for that. This song, however, plays a very crucial role on my soundtrack-list. Those of you familiar with the singer and her back story, and those of you who can read between the lines and guess what it is about will easily be able to tell why. (In case you don’t like the musical part, I recommend to either mute it, or look up the lyrics on a page of your choice.)
However, as I said before, neither of those details makes it special.
The only one that’s special here is the person I’m dedicating it to.
A person who has more strength and courage than most other people I know, a person who (metaphorically speaking) deserves nothing but sunshine but keeps getting more rain instead, and a person I deeply love and adore, more than I could ever spell out.
Gabby-darling, this is for you <3
~°oOo°oOo°oOo°~
un•bro•ken /ʌnˈbroʊ kən/
-adjective
1. not broken; whole; intact
2. uninterrupted; continuous
3. undaunted in spirit
4. not disturbed or upset
I’m not writing. I’m drawing. Lines, circles, more lines. Covering half of the paper already.
What am I supposed to write anyway? What can I tell about myself? True, I could give you my name, my age, my hair colour... but isn’t this all insignificant anyway?
I guess I could write about my life... but fact is that I hardly think about my life before the incident these days. It seems unimportant now, unreal almost, and far, far away.
And my life after the incident is not worth mentioning either... it has become so limited, so reduced, circling around the same thoughts and actions every day.
What incident? Oh, of course. I should have expected that question. Well...
Back to drawing circles and lines. And more circles.
I...
Another circle. And another one.
I was raped.
Well, there you go. Seems simple, doesn’t it?
Have you any idea how long it took me to be able to state this seemingly simple sentence? Just to write it even?
You don't understand. You just don't understand.
I hate everything about this sentence, how it sounds, what it implies, but most of all the very way it reminds me of something I want to forget, to erase, knowing I’ll never be able to. It has been dominating my life ever since. If you can call what I have a life, that is.
bro•ken /ˈbroʊ kən/
-adjective
1. reduced to fragments; fragmented
2. ruptured; torn; fractured
3. not functioning properly; out of working order
4. fragmentary or incomplete
5. infringed or violated
6. weakened in strength, spirit, etc.
7. tamed, trained, or reduced to submission
I would not call if a life at all. A task, a chore, a burden is more like it.
I have to deal with the fact that I survived. It's a blessing, they say. It's a curse, I think. But it's my mission, my duty. And I have to fulfil that mission. So I fight. Every single day, every minute of it.
Still, it feels like a losing battle.
I can’t fight those pictures. I can’t erase them. My mind is like a perfect white screen, replaying them again and again and again. I can’t stand to look at them anymore, yet I can’t look away. I’m too weak. Much too weak.
My fault. All my fault.
More lines. Seemingly endless, forming loops and patterns...
You know, self-blame can take an almost religious form. You get up in the morning, and you start to repeat it like a mantra: I’m dirty. I’m damaged. I’m nothing.
And then, like an odd kind of choir, those other voices join in. How could you…? Why didn’t you…? You deserved it for being so weak. Come on, you were basically asking for it.
In this state, how can people still stand to be around me? How can anyone even bear to look at me?
“But why?” I asked so many times, “Why are you doing this?”
And his answer was always the same: “Because I love you.”
“That’s not true. You can’t possibly still love me.” I felt like screaming in protest.
“Why else would I still be here?” He always stayed so calm, despite the fact that he was not calm at all. I could tell. I could always tell.
I made up many, many answers that question. Yet... I just couldn’t understand. Couldn’t see why he would even want to be there. Why bother with a person as flawed, as damaged, when he could be with someone else? Someone more worthy of his time and dedication.
I wonder what he sees in me. I really wonder.
He told me many, many times to look into the mirror and see it for myself. He pleaded with me, begged me to. He even handed me that mirror, but I could not even stand to look at it for one second. All I wanted was to smash it, to turn its blank, immaculate surface into a vicious rain of shards, until it became like me. Broken, shattered. Finally showing the reality. In pieces.
I hate what has become of me. I hate it so much. And I hate him for not seeing it.
No, that’s not true.
I’m lying again, but what is another lie when my whole life has turned into one?
The truth is always so much more difficult. The truth is never easy, or clearly defined. The truth is fragmented and broken.
It’s the truth though that I love him. I love him so much. And I want to get better. I really want to. But…
I’m scared.
un•break / ʌnˈbreɪk/
-verb
1. undo a damage; repair
2. put back together
3. reunite; re-establish
4. process that is partly or completely impossible
~°oOo°oOo°oOo°~
The fact that I added a song to it is not special either. You know me, I have thing for that. This song, however, plays a very crucial role on my soundtrack-list. Those of you familiar with the singer and her back story, and those of you who can read between the lines and guess what it is about will easily be able to tell why. (In case you don’t like the musical part, I recommend to either mute it, or look up the lyrics on a page of your choice.)
However, as I said before, neither of those details makes it special.
The only one that’s special here is the person I’m dedicating it to.
A person who has more strength and courage than most other people I know, a person who (metaphorically speaking) deserves nothing but sunshine but keeps getting more rain instead, and a person I deeply love and adore, more than I could ever spell out.
Gabby-darling, this is for you <3
~°oOo°oOo°oOo°~
un•bro•ken /ʌnˈbroʊ kən/
-adjective
1. not broken; whole; intact
2. uninterrupted; continuous
3. undaunted in spirit
4. not disturbed or upset
I’m not writing. I’m drawing. Lines, circles, more lines. Covering half of the paper already.
What am I supposed to write anyway? What can I tell about myself? True, I could give you my name, my age, my hair colour... but isn’t this all insignificant anyway?
I guess I could write about my life... but fact is that I hardly think about my life before the incident these days. It seems unimportant now, unreal almost, and far, far away.
And my life after the incident is not worth mentioning either... it has become so limited, so reduced, circling around the same thoughts and actions every day.
What incident? Oh, of course. I should have expected that question. Well...
Back to drawing circles and lines. And more circles.
I...
Another circle. And another one.
I was raped.
Well, there you go. Seems simple, doesn’t it?
Have you any idea how long it took me to be able to state this seemingly simple sentence? Just to write it even?
You don't understand. You just don't understand.
I hate everything about this sentence, how it sounds, what it implies, but most of all the very way it reminds me of something I want to forget, to erase, knowing I’ll never be able to. It has been dominating my life ever since. If you can call what I have a life, that is.
bro•ken /ˈbroʊ kən/
-adjective
1. reduced to fragments; fragmented
2. ruptured; torn; fractured
3. not functioning properly; out of working order
4. fragmentary or incomplete
5. infringed or violated
6. weakened in strength, spirit, etc.
7. tamed, trained, or reduced to submission
I would not call if a life at all. A task, a chore, a burden is more like it.
I have to deal with the fact that I survived. It's a blessing, they say. It's a curse, I think. But it's my mission, my duty. And I have to fulfil that mission. So I fight. Every single day, every minute of it.
Still, it feels like a losing battle.
I can’t fight those pictures. I can’t erase them. My mind is like a perfect white screen, replaying them again and again and again. I can’t stand to look at them anymore, yet I can’t look away. I’m too weak. Much too weak.
My fault. All my fault.
More lines. Seemingly endless, forming loops and patterns...
You know, self-blame can take an almost religious form. You get up in the morning, and you start to repeat it like a mantra: I’m dirty. I’m damaged. I’m nothing.
And then, like an odd kind of choir, those other voices join in. How could you…? Why didn’t you…? You deserved it for being so weak. Come on, you were basically asking for it.
In this state, how can people still stand to be around me? How can anyone even bear to look at me?
“But why?” I asked so many times, “Why are you doing this?”
And his answer was always the same: “Because I love you.”
“That’s not true. You can’t possibly still love me.” I felt like screaming in protest.
“Why else would I still be here?” He always stayed so calm, despite the fact that he was not calm at all. I could tell. I could always tell.
I made up many, many answers that question. Yet... I just couldn’t understand. Couldn’t see why he would even want to be there. Why bother with a person as flawed, as damaged, when he could be with someone else? Someone more worthy of his time and dedication.
I wonder what he sees in me. I really wonder.
He told me many, many times to look into the mirror and see it for myself. He pleaded with me, begged me to. He even handed me that mirror, but I could not even stand to look at it for one second. All I wanted was to smash it, to turn its blank, immaculate surface into a vicious rain of shards, until it became like me. Broken, shattered. Finally showing the reality. In pieces.
I hate what has become of me. I hate it so much. And I hate him for not seeing it.
No, that’s not true.
I’m lying again, but what is another lie when my whole life has turned into one?
The truth is always so much more difficult. The truth is never easy, or clearly defined. The truth is fragmented and broken.
It’s the truth though that I love him. I love him so much. And I want to get better. I really want to. But…
I’m scared.
un•break / ʌnˈbreɪk/
-verb
1. undo a damage; repair
2. put back together
3. reunite; re-establish
4. process that is partly or completely impossible
~°oOo°oOo°oOo°~
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