The Horror!

Today I'm writing about a different kind of horror.

Because today I started re-reading all those texts, and I had to stop. Even tho it's been YEARS, and I'm better now, and I can actually say that I'm happy, it still hurts so fucking much to see how easily you manipulated me, how shamelessly you hurt me. And I read, in horror, all those long conversations, blaming me for everything, pushing me into that horrible roller coaster of blame, emotional blackmail, twisted love and all that fucking shit.

Demanding so much of me, blaming me for not caring while you kicked me to the floor and I had to keep a good face on, cause that's what I've always been taught. You knew all my weaknesses, and you played with them. And I get it, you were hurt too. But why do I always have to get it? Why is it me the one who always has to be empathic? Why can't I be selfish without being the bad guy in the story?

I got so fucking tired of keeping everyone alive while I was sinking.

And I'm so mad. And I think I would be in the right if I just told you to go fuck yourself, but I don't, because I'm such a good girl. And it's so fucking exhausting. And yes, I might be the bad guy in your story. But I'm okay with it. And I know you still hold things against me.

But how convenient it is that the only thing you seem to have forgotten is one of the worst things you ever did to me? Oh, how you loved to talk about trust and sincerity. But wait, you didn't forget because the one time I had the courage to talk about it you scolded me instead for that one time. So full of shit. So good at knowing how to manipulate me.

So yeah, you became one of the horrors of my brain, one of the fears. While you casually keep popping in to ask silly advice, I idiotically offer it as if we were old pals. But I don't want to be pals. If it weren't for the rest you wouldn't be in my life in any form, or that's what I'd like to think. And I don't want you fucking reading this like you did my diary, so keep the hell out. You cannot be here anymore.

Now I don't care. I don't fucking care right now. You will not have the right to reproach me for anything again, 'cause if you do I'll come for you.

A bit of advice

 

So, it's been a while since I was here – again–.

I wanted to come back, at least in April.

Today's prompt is "a bit of advice". I don't know what to write about, what advice could I give anyway? I have no aspirations or ambitions anymore. Unless you count not being miserable. I just try to keep living, without the burden of my own sadness. So, what advice could I give? Go to therapy, let go of the things - the people - that harm you? that just feel like a Mr. Wonderful diary.

But that's what worked for me so I guess it couldn't help to try.

At least I'm happier. And yes, there are still days when I cry without reason, when I can't get myself out of bed, even now. But things are better.

So try and surround yourself with the good things, the people that keep you safe and warm. It won't be easy, but it'll get easier with time. And time will also give you a sense of clarity.

It hurt a little to realize some things. Like that I'm not special to the eyes of the world – but I am to the eyes of someone I really care about and that's quite better–, that I don't have some big destiny to fulfil – but I do have a duty to myself of keeping me alive and well and not terribly sad all the time–, that I don't fit in the mold I was taught to grow – but I fit here–.

Find your own seed of peace, nourish it, and keep on going.