Hope=Pain
Everything I do and say feels like a whim and I don't know how to stop the thoughts that go through my mind. They race through me like a brushfire, leaving me feeling numb and unsure about everything I do and say. I wish I could find a better way than this. Everytime I feel happy and satisfied, my thoughts start and when they are able to take hold they make me feel unsettled. This feeling obviously is very saddening. So basically I am sad for no reason. I used to always be so depressed because of things that happened to me, but now, my mind wants to torture me. I guess I really do hate myself... Then I think, no that's silly, I don't hate myself; but is that just a delusion? Is the reality of it all that I sabotage my own happiness? All I've ever wanted was to be happy, but now that my personal life is the way that I want it, I wonder if that is even possible for me. Of all the people in my life that I trust, I am finding more and more that I am just not one of those people. If you can't trust yourself, well who can a person really trust? I'm supposed to be able to count on myself that I will never steer myself wrong. But to be perfectly honest, I really just can't. How can I trust others with my information and my heart, if I can't fully trust myself? Despite the questions, I find it easier to trust someone else (i.e. Tim and a few others) over me.
I was so proud of myself for thinking that I broke the cycle of abuse by not abusing my son, but I find that I have nothing to be proud about. I didn't break the cycle, I just changed the form to something less obvious. Instead of hurting others that I love and cherish (my sons, my Tim), I hurt myself. I stab myself with thoughts of self loathing and guilt, trying to pierce my heart with the invisible knife of thoughts that no one says aloud. And when I try, I usually succeed...especially if it involves causing pain.
I have cut myself a handful of times, but I tell you, the pain I put myself through hurts so much worse than any bloodletting. So I stick with what's best, convinced that this is what I deserve. Meanwhile, I'm screaming inside for a miracle release, but it never comes. I have accepted that I can only get pauses here and there, to let the old scabs heal just to pick them open once more and once more.
I look at my picture to the left of this typing space and I look at peace. I want to feel that peace again, that I have felt intermittently throughout my life. I wait in agonizing outward silence and inward screams of pain just to feel it again for a feeling that I may or may not ever feel again. I can envision myself (representing my sad and pathetic life) drowning in a sea (representing misery, despair, and lonliness) and I'm still fighting. 25 years of hell and I'm still fighting....there were 5 times where I stopped for a short period of time, thinking that I gave up. Then out of nowhere I get kickstarted back to fighting for air (representing the things that complete me) or at least for the promise of air. It feels so fucking masochistic of me to continue to dare to hope. I continue. I hurt. I go on. What is pain, but a reminder that you are alive?
I was so proud of myself for thinking that I broke the cycle of abuse by not abusing my son, but I find that I have nothing to be proud about. I didn't break the cycle, I just changed the form to something less obvious. Instead of hurting others that I love and cherish (my sons, my Tim), I hurt myself. I stab myself with thoughts of self loathing and guilt, trying to pierce my heart with the invisible knife of thoughts that no one says aloud. And when I try, I usually succeed...especially if it involves causing pain.
I have cut myself a handful of times, but I tell you, the pain I put myself through hurts so much worse than any bloodletting. So I stick with what's best, convinced that this is what I deserve. Meanwhile, I'm screaming inside for a miracle release, but it never comes. I have accepted that I can only get pauses here and there, to let the old scabs heal just to pick them open once more and once more.
I look at my picture to the left of this typing space and I look at peace. I want to feel that peace again, that I have felt intermittently throughout my life. I wait in agonizing outward silence and inward screams of pain just to feel it again for a feeling that I may or may not ever feel again. I can envision myself (representing my sad and pathetic life) drowning in a sea (representing misery, despair, and lonliness) and I'm still fighting. 25 years of hell and I'm still fighting....there were 5 times where I stopped for a short period of time, thinking that I gave up. Then out of nowhere I get kickstarted back to fighting for air (representing the things that complete me) or at least for the promise of air. It feels so fucking masochistic of me to continue to dare to hope. I continue. I hurt. I go on. What is pain, but a reminder that you are alive?