Repairing the Past
Sometimes I think the rabbit hole cannot possibly go any deeper.
But yes.
It can.
It can be so fuckin’ deep… Hidden doors, hidden holes, hidden…
Pain.
There is a question I never asked myself: why did I want to end my life so many times?
My first suicidal thought came when I was 12 — or at least, that is the first one I remember.
No. If I dig deep enough, I see something else. But I honestly don’t know when it started.
Seems like the Universe wanted me to ask this question…
Poor Chester.
Linkin Park — countless times, I felt like they saved me.
And still, Chester ended his life.
Seeing, facing that darkness day after day is something terrible.
“I’ve become so numb…”
“I end up failing too”
“You were just like me — someone disappointed in you”
So why did I want to end my life?
Because as a kid, I felt like it was the only way I could take control of my own life.
No one came to save me.
No one heard me.
I was blamed for all the things that happened to me.
“Leaving behind my own illusion…”
“Living inside my own confusion.”
“I try to keep this pain inside
but I will never be alright”
No one saw me.
And even those who saw me turned their heads away.
And whenever I wanted to protect myself — I was the problem.
They took away my right and my power to protect myself while no one protected me.
And ending my life seemed like the only way I could take control of my own life back.
The only decision I could make to save myself from suffering.
And maybe give back a little of the pain they had caused me.
I hoped that losing me would open their eyes and they would finally see me as I was — a human being with feelings and a will of my own.
And whenever that feeling comes back, it is because, for a moment, I feel like I cannot take back the wheel.
Just like after giving birth. When, over and over again, I lost every sense of control. I wasn’t able to heal, however hard I tried. However hard I kept trying to move forward, I fell back into the swamp of self-hatred.
I didn’t see how fucking strong and amazing I was for continuing to move forward. I only saw what a failure I was for things that just… happened to me.
Things that simply happened.
Things I couldn’t fix.
Because I was and am healthy as fuck. I did everything right, and things just… happened.
I was unlucky.
Yes.
I was just unlucky.
But because I had no real answers, I started blaming myself. Telling myself that I was a failure. That something must be wrong with me.
I didn’t see what others saw:
— the woman who always keeps going, who gives pain and fear the middle finger and does everything she can to get better and keep her life moving forward.
I saw a failure who wasn’t even good enough to be a woman.
I questioned everything about myself.
Again.
And again.
And again.
My worth.
My ability to lead my own life.
And honestly, if I were my own friend and heard her saying the things about herself that I have said about myself, I would probably kick her in the ass so hard that she would forget all that bullshit.
I never looked at myself as a survivor — I looked at myself as a fucking failure.
That’s why it hurts so much when I try everything to get out of the loop and still feel like a wounded animal trapped in a corner with no way out.
It is not because I want my life to end.
It is because, in that moment, I desperately want to feel that I have control over my own life again.
To make a decision that is actually mine.
This is probably also part of the reason behind my hyper-independence.
What can I say — I am fucked up to the core.
But hey.
The Sun is rising on the horizon.
Fuck this shit, honestly.