It's been a while.
I hate this feeling. Everything it's so fragile.
And they say I'm the sensitive one.
I have to take my pain – every kind of it – and put it away in a box because it does not matter, it never will, there's no space for it.
The pain you all have, the pain you bring inside, is so big it takes all the space.
And it hurts me, in so many ways. I have to be strong all the time, 'cause the moment I lower my guard, I become the one to point at. So I'm never enough and every thing I do is wrong.
And you all are so cruel to one another, and I can't understand why. And I try, I have tried so many times to be the mediator, the empathetic one, the understanding. But sometimes it seems like you don't even want to understand each other anymore. Like, yeah, you love each other, but you don't put the effort of really understanding each other. So we're always here. And I feel small, insignificant. And I'm scared, I don't know want to do or what to be or how to react, and I feel still like a little scared girl.
And I remember, when there was a calm after the storm, and I felt confident for a while that we were gonna be okay. But I guess that once you're a dysfunctional family, it's hard to not be one again, even when it gets rebuilt.
So I shut up and down. And I try. And I fail every damn time. And it's gotten to a point we're the things I've learned are to not stand up for myself, just in case I hurt other people's feeling along the way, just in case.
It's very hard to try and work on myself when home is not the idea of love anymore, when it's a place to pick up again and again the little pieces of my heart that fell to the ground. And I'm “the introvert one” but no one ever says that I'm the one that went through abuse and trauma since the very start and had no other coping mechanism than a closed bedroom and a stuffed rabbit. And everything I've learned about my mind, it's only because I got tired of wanting to be dead every single day and put the effort of talking to someone. And I fight every damn day to get out of that mind space. But they don't know, and I would be selfish of me if they did.
So I have to release the pain somewhere, sometimes. And add some other stuff to the list of things they don't know about while I keep fighting to not hurt myself to relieve some of the pain, to keep those thoughts away. And it's been like this since I remember, at least since I was 11 – which, if you think about it, is really messed up –. Funny thing is, I'm the most okay I've probably have been since then. But hey, baby steps.
