I try not to write when I’m in an active state of being upset, because honestly, no one wants to hear about that. Or at least, that’s what I assume. (I’m not good enough, no one cares, so change yourself.)
I’ll feel what I feel and try to stuff it down. I’ll wait until later to write when I’m in a less emotional state and more numb. I’ll tell the facts as the are and leave emotion behind.
I’ll fluff it with sarcasm and lightheartedness. It’s false positivity. It isn’t real, it’s buried. It’s muted.
There’s a big part of me that is afraid of feeling. Afraid of committing to the feeling by writing about it. Afraid of what it means and what it comes with. I don’t like feeling. So why would I put it out there?
Well, because it’s real. Because it’s there and it exists and because if I feel these things, who am I doing any favors to by denying that they exist?
Sometimes I want to scream. I want to literally just start screaming and yelling and bitching about how messed up life is! Like, I’m over here fucking DROWNING and how can you possibly not see it and hear me and do something to help?!
So I drink it away. I numb myself so I don’t have to feel. So I don’t have to close my eyes and face the nightmares. I think a lot about not being here anymore. I try to get through each second because sometimes, that’s the best I can do. Take it second by second.
Not that long ago, I started struggling with self harm again. For the first time in years, it was just another thing that became too big. I just couldn’t handle all of the things, all of the feelings, and I needed the pain to just stop. Or at least, be different. Feel different.
Literally everything I do is to avoid feeling. Drinking, sarcasm, numbing myself, acting happier than I am…it’s all bullshit.
My entire life growing up, (and it seems the cycle is beginning to repeat itself now) I have been disciplined and punished for feeling. My household growing up was abusive at best, and simply put, I wasn’t allowed to “feel”. There wasn’t room for me. My parents were too busy dealing with my sister. I wasn’t allowed to be sad or angry or hurt…it wasn’t tolerated.
So really, is there any question why I fake it? Why I hide it, why I drink it away? My husband doesn’t want me to feel. No, I just need to keep carrying the weight of the world alone and I’m expected to need nothing. Take care of everyone around me physically and emotionally, and need nothing for myself. God FORBID I have an emotional need that needs to be met!
I’m sorry. I feel things. I have bad days. I have bad weeks. My life is hard. Maybe I’ll get through it, maybe I’ll have an exceptionally bad night at some point and not “get through it”…I don’t know. I don’t know.
Everyone struggles. Everyone has pain. Some more than others, but we all have hard times and rough patches and just times where we need a little bit more than others.
I hate it when the people in my life lie to me or diminish how they are feeling. I want to help. I want to do everything I can and I want to, at the very least, be a person they know their honesty and their feelings are safe with.
I am that person for everyone in my life. I am a safe person and everyone knows it. So how hypocritical of me is it to not own my own truth and my own struggles.
I’m having a hard time and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of feeling alone in it. It’s dishonest to act more okay than I am. I didn’t start writing to be dishonest.
I’m not okay. At least, tonight, I don’t feel okay. Tomorrow I might not either. And that’s okay. I’m allowed to feel. I’m allowed to have needs. We all are.
The only disservice is in not taking care of ourselves and not giving ourselves what we need. And that begins with honesty.
Tomorrow I have therapy for the first time in over 2 weeks since I’ve been away. I’m already thinking of all the ways I can avoid talking about everything that hurts, everything that’s wrong. But I know I shouldn’t do that, and it will take all of me to fight against that.
I know I’m only hurting myself by continuing to stuff it down. And I don’t want to hurt anymore.