Sometimes only paper will listen to you
I write for something totally different.
I need to heal.
I have an emotional explosion of my life and writing is my way of letting it all out.
There is a sense of safety that consumes me when I allow my thoughts, my fears and my pain unfold. When I share my demons and my history I take that chance of shame and ridicule to find me. But no matter what I may receive from another there is nothing worth the weight that is lifted from my heart and soul when I release it into the universe.
Today I was referred to as an angel.
Not your stereotypical angel with wings, transparent and white, floating from the heavens but an actual angel sent here from another dimension to help and change the vicious cycle that surrounds everyone around me.
I was not sure how to take this at first. I was overwhelmed with so many feelings. She said that most girls who have endured the pain, struggle and abuse that I had gone through would of never of made it as far as I did. The light and compassion that I hold is far more than most human beings. My reply to her was so simple.
"I couldn't let them take my light, I didn't want them to win."
I refused to let the negative and horrible things over come my will to live the way life was intended for me. As a child I was unable to process everything that was going on. I was not able to wrap my head around all the pain and confusion that took over my emotions. I acted out. I was rebellious and backwards. I was obnoxious and sometimes told I was "A lot to take in." I used comedy and ridiculousness to hide the little girl that felt so frightened and alone.
I started writing when I was young. I did poetry and journalism with the typical dear diary entries. It seemed to help then as much as it has been helping me as an adult. But now it's different. Now I am not only using poetry and writing as an escape but more to let other people know that my story may sound similar to theirs.
You are not alone.
You are not the only one who has ever felt abandoned and left to curl up in a ball at every one's disposal.
I know now as an adult that there are so many stories out there of girls that were abused, girls that were made to feel less than what they really were. It was so important for me to recognize that I was not alone because for such a long time I felt like there was something wrong with me and I deserved the abuse that surrounded me.
But I didn't.
And more importantly, you do not either.
I am not sure if I would ever have the right words to help someone overcome such tragedy. I am not even a hundred percent sure I know how I survived it.
But I did.
Now I write about it.
When I was younger I felt like I had no one to talk to. No one to trust. Everyone I was supposed to trust deceived me and the only person that made me feel safe also made me fear the loss of him if I would of opened up.
So my diary became my best friend. I told her everything. I didn't feel like my mom cared enough to ever look for the diary or even in it if she found it but I also think there was a part of me that wished she would of seen it. She would of known that I needed her to open her eyes and protect me. I needed love and security that comes from a mother. There is always that wonder that maybe she did find my entries and she did read them but she didn't care less what I was going through. I know I may be over exaggerating but she never gave me any reason to ever think otherwise.
I had a teacher that I really looked up to. She had a few writing assignments that helped me get some of my emotions out in the open. She reached out to me but for whatever reason I did not trust her enough to let her in.
When everything came out, my senior year, I had a psychiatrist who I felt so connected to. I trusted her with every single word. I remember telling her that I wished my mother would listen to me and love me the way my father loved me. I would tell her that I didn't feel worthy of her love. So one day she wanted to see what my mother had to say. She asked me my permission to allow my mom in one of my sessions. I agreed. I knew it wouldn't take long for her to see what I lived with my entire life. And just like I thought, it didn't.
We never asked her to come in another session.
There was no reason to. It was so obvious that there was only one person that my mother cared about.
Herself.
I wrote a lot about the affects of my mothers actions or lack thereof. I still write about it. Emotionally I can not turn those thoughts and resentments off.
Like everything else in life I just chose to forgive knowing I would never forget.
But when I write there is always this overwhelming sense of emotions that take over me because it brings all those feelings back.
Like opening a wound that is not completely healed.
But how do you heal from such devastating events that seem to surround your entire childhood?
You write.
You let the words escape your soul. You allow the universe to digest all the bad and horrible energy that you release.
You give yourself up and surrender as you are not qualified to fix yourself.
Your writing, your words whether typed or written is your way out.
And unless you give it the permission to tell the world, it never tells a soul.
Whether its your diary, your poems, blog inserts or a novel of fiction.
Writing is your escape.
It is my escape.
It is whatever and whenever I need it to be.
Because sometimes,
Only paper will listen to you.
Comments
Post a Comment