Stress

 Hey, it's been a while.

And this time is different. This time, there's more will. I have come a long way, and the best part is that I want to keep going, which is refreshing but a new kind of hard. I feel like I deserve things now, at least sometimes. And I keep going back and forth, fighting with myself, trying to become someone else, a better version of me, one that wants to be alive.

But somehow now it's harder to give myself away. So I get angry. I get angry at everyone for always expecting things of me, getting me for granted, like everybody will do the things I do, except no one does. But when I think that way I cringe, because I'm not that special, and of course I'm dispensable and not special. But I am. But not really. So the part of me that despises me keeps fighting with the part of me that thinks I'm amazing and they keep ignoring the regular human side. But how can I say anything, what if I do and everyone hates me? What if they're all talking behind my back about how I think I'm something else when I'm not? And I'm scared of everyone hating me, and I have to know they do not. I have to think that and make that effort by myself.

When I'm low my mind keeps going to that dark side. My anxiety comes back to tell me that it would be easier and better to be dead. So I keep pushing that away. And I least I can kind of talk about it now. I can even manage it. I've found less dangerous ways to hurt myself to cope with things. But the funny thing is those are not harmless either, so I've just created a different issue to fix a problem. But hey, I least I binge instead of self-harming, and I guess that's an improvement.

I'm sad now, and this feels messy and a bunch of nonsense, but I swear I'm better now. It's just that recovery is not like they show in the movies. I'm scared of so many other new things. And I feel alone in such a different way, it surprises me. No one tells you how hard it feels to want to be alive while you're getting tired of wishing to be dead, I guess it's not something helpful. Maybe not everyone feels this way. I wonder if the voice ever goes completely away. Mine has gotten smaller and weaker, but it does not disappear. Even if I don't really feel like I want to die at the moment, it just comes and lets me know that it would be easier, less painful, like it was a helpful tip. 

And I keep doing these things, 'cause it's my thing to do them. And I keep getting tired of feeling like the Atlas of my world. And I keep saying I won't do this again, that I'll learn to delegate, I'll learn to speak out, to ask for help. But I don't. And I get angry. And I'm tired. And I think I know better. And I feel left out, betrayed, ignored, excluded, dismissed, lonely, angry, stressed, scared. I crave the approval of others, and it never feels enough; it never fills my void. Would anyone do the same for me? I'm scared of finding out. I'm supposed to be happy now. I am sometimes. I generally am. I don't want to keep unblocking new insecurities. I don't like this feeling. I feel like my feeling this way will bother others, so I shouldn't. I should just stop being a pain in the ass, being so entitled. But how? When will it be enough? How do I get to be happy and at peace with myself and to be the version of me I should be instead of the one I am? I can do this shit anymore, but I will. With hard work, breakdowns, tears, joy, love, and a newfound will to live, even if this is the cost. At least for now. I really hope it gets better.

I actually just wanted to come here to vent about silly things like how stressed it makes me to organise things and take care of everything, but I got the headphones on and blasted music to a dangerous volume. And I discovered that half of my dark playist is now gone, but I turned that shit on anyways to try and get in my writing dark feeling mode and it got out of hand. I might go for a walk to try and get back to reality. 

But really. Everything is better now.

Ya no me acuerdo

 Me balanceo constantemente entre la suerte de la normalidad y el miedo de los traumas. 

La mayor parte de los días lo llevo bien. Luego hay algunos en los que la realidad me da de golpe en el corazón y vuelvo a sentirme como cuando tenía 11 años y el mundo entero cargado en los hombros. ¿Qué se hace cuando alguien a quien quieres está siendo tan cruel que aunque no sea contigo sangras igual? ¿Qué se hace cuando sabes que no puedes decirle nada porque tiene el mundo entero en los hombros y no podrá soportar ni 10 segundos más? 

Esta vez sí elegiría cargar yo con el mundo.

¿Cómo gestiono el echar de menos algo que nunca he tenido?

¿Cómo gestiono todos mis conflictos sobre si debo perdonar o no? ¿Sobre si quiero perdonar o no? Cambio de opinión cada vez que cambia mi registro de recuerdos y me preocupa la frecuencia con la que eso pasa.

¿Qué hago cuando se ha roto lo que solía ser perfecto?

¿Cómo actúo cuando los cambios me afectan hasta este nivel y siento que la única solución es fingir hasta adaptarme?

Y a veces siento que ya estoy cansada. Que estoy tan cansada que no quiero pasar más tiempo de mi vida en situaciones en las que no quiero estar.

Pero sigo cediendo por los demás, o por la idea que creo que tienen de cómo debería actuar. Y me siento de papel y de mentira.

¿Por qué no puedo arreglar nada?

Drupal

 Ha pasado mucho tiempo. Otra vez.

Estaba en la calle cuando me han entrado las ganas de escribir y se me ha encendido la chispa. Pero ahora, sentada frente al ordenador, me doy cuenta de que no he conseguido conservarla.

Pero quería hablar de muchas cosas. De cómo la vida es tremendamente complicada. A veces miro con nostalgia al pasado, concretamente a esos buenos cuatro años en los que mi vida era un desastre y fantaseaba constantemente con desaparecer mientras soportaba el peso de dos mundos en mis hombros. Era horrible. Pero tenía a mi lado a gente a la que nunca podré dejar de querer, personas increíbles que sin saberlo me salvaron la vida. Hoy paso meses sin verles y ni siquiera hablamos todos los días. Mi vida ha dado un cambio brusco y ahora lucho por ella y mis fantasías han cambiado, pero aunque la perspectiva del futuro ha mejorado y la mayor parte de los días incluso me atrevo a decir que soy feliz, ahora mi rutina son otras personas. Entiendo que no puedo quejarme, porque he encontrado en otros brazos un lugar seguro, he profundizado en otras amistades y he tomado otras costumbres. Tiendo a pensar que no soy de esas personas que echan de menos - aunque a veces me sorprenden mis propias lágrimas de nostalgia - pero echo de menos las horas de risas, confidencias, juegos y trabajos en el suelo de mi cueva personal. No quisiera volver a vivir ahí porque la vida cambia y avanza y mis esquinas se me han quedado pequeñas. Pero volvería con los ojos cerrados a pasar una noche más así. Sé que ya nunca será igual, al menos no exactamente igual. Pero quiero guardar siempre estos recuerdos en un baúl especial. Todo el mundo tiene sus defectos y sé que tiendo a idealizar lo que teníamos. Pero, ¿Cómo no voy a idealizarlo? Es difícil no poner en un pedestal aquello que fue tantas veces mi motivo de seguir adelante.

Sé que soy un desastre. En realidad como amiga me considero regular, me cuesta sacar tiempo y no me gusta salir de mi zona de confort. Así que considero todo un logro aquellas salidas. Y recuerdo con amor vuestra paciencia y apoyo. Ojalá haya podido daros yo al menos la mitad de lo que me habéis dado.

Supongo que por mucho que creyese que todo iba a seguir igual al final cada vida tiene su ritmo y cuando son distintos no se puede coincidir con tanta facilidad. Y no me molesta, no lo echo de menos de esa forma. Pero me da pena que eso pueda diluir la relación, me da miedo que se levanten muros que antes no estaban, porque no quiero que seamos extraños, aunque pasen los meses y los años. Y es parte del motivo por el que no quiero deshacerme de la identidad que nos une, y es parte del motivo por el que siendo orgullo de la misma.

Voy a dejarlo estar, porque empiezo a sentirme ridícula habiendo llorado tanto por lo mismo cuando siempre me habéis recibido con los brazos abiertos. Gracias.

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.

it's been a while

– I almost never think about you, Fi. And I haven't seen her in so long I can't even remember what she looked like.

– Nobody here is angry at you. 

– Well, some of them are. I know they are. 

– Not me. 

– Not you – I smile–. I know you won't ever be... I'll try to come back sooner.

He smiles, a sad smile, but with loving, calming eyes. He has that effect. He is that loving, nurturing, protecting feeling. He's the keeper of my world, or at least part of it. 

– I'll be waiting. 

On another love

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.