Who doesn’t think about death sometimes
Whether there is truly a heaven and/or a hell
If there’s really a bright light,
If you’ll see your ‘loved ones’ again,
Or if it’s really just lights out…
Like an eternal sleep kinda thing.
  
Being the capricious crazyhead that I can be,
I think different things at different times.
Sometimes I find myself fascinated by the subject,
Especially when I have an acute flair-up from my chronic trauma brain
And I’m unable to find even a moment of relief, mentally or physically.
It’s in those moments I wonder what it’s like to be ‘dead’.

No one really knows, right?
No one comes back after dying and says
“Hey – I was dead for 3 days and death is like club med!”
No one ever gets a postcard from someone who died that reads,
“It’s hot ~ bring a fan."
You don’t get an itinerary emailed to you a week prior to your death.
… there’s nothing ‘helpful’ so you can be ‘prepared’.

Late night conversation between the sane me and the crazy brain:
Crazybrain:  Sometimes I think I’d like to die because I just need it to stop.
Sane Me: What do you think it’s like after you die?
Crazybrain:  Quiet…nothing. I don’t really believe in reincarnation (I don’t think) but I can’t imagine death is worse than living like this.
Sane Me: But you don’t know that…what if death is worse than life? What if it’s worse?
Crazybrain:  I don’t think it’s worse. (at this point, Crazybrain goes way off into left field, as she often does…) I sometimes think my dog is my grandfather reincarnated. He seems really sensitive to my feelings and always tries to comfort me when I’m sad or troubled. (of course, this statement was made AFTER Crazybrain just said that she didn’t think she believed in reincarnation. Told ya ~ Crazybrain’s thinking pattern can sometimes be a bit erratic.)
Sane Me:  …Yeah, pets are sensitive to human emotions.

So last night I was once again contemplating what it’s like to be dead
(this was after cleaning my closet and finding a bottle of vicodin left over from some injury)
~ no ~ I did not take the vicodin.
Could death be worse than living like this
It strikes me funny:
The quality of life after death?
Is there a QUALITY of LIFE after death?
Or, are you just “dead”.

In my real life I tend to pull inside myself when I find myself in a place of fear or pain; much like a turtle hiding inside her shell when she feels threatened. It’s difficult for me to reach out to someone for help, or even just for ‘company’. I don’t feel that way “here” ~ for a couple of reasons, there is, of course, the anonymity factor, but also because I think most people who ‘read’ my writings feel and struggle with much of the same things I do. In my real life that is not the case.

I am encouraged by others to share with people…share the truth. I am told that if I shared the truth with them…not like the gross explicit details of what is running rampant through my crazy brain, but just when things trigger a past memory for me and it how it makes me feel. And without even thinking about it, I shout, “No way! I don’t want them to know!” It’s hard to share the bad things in real life with real life people because I don’t want them to see me the way I see myself; weak and gross and ***** and depressed. I want them to see the Nita that I’ve always been….because I’m embarrassed of the other “nitas”. And they are to be kept in the dark, as they have always been.

Therapy sessions are very difficult because we continued to talk about the ‘hard stuff’ the stuff I don’t talk about and I pushed myself to share more of the bad stuff with than I ever have before. I think I push myself because I want to feel better so badly that I just want to spew it all out of me so “we” can figure out how to deal with it so there is less confusion and craziness and fighting inside my head. But my plan kind of back-fires on me because there is even more craziness and fighting…voices screaming that we shared too much with the therapist. Embarrassment, shame, fear, pain…all pummeled me until I wanted to cut the voices right out of my brain! What was I thinking? Why did I tell him that? What he must think of me now! *******! Now I can never go back there he knows way too much! And this continuous tape recorder does not stop.

I have text messages and voice mail messages and emails from friends and I cannot answer any of them because I cannot let anyone know how much pain I am in and how much shame I feel from therapy and my pathetic life.  But then slowly, I start to respond to some of the emails and text messages, apologizing for my lack of response but that I wasn't really in a place to talk. And I realized that I do have friends who love me and would be there for me, if I would let them… I respond to one friend and told her I wasn’t in a good place so I couldn’t respond to her then…and she said, “That’s when you walk up to me for a hug and know that I am here for you always.”

I have some really good friends out there…but you know what still holds me back from reaching out to them? That voice inside who says, “Nita, they don’t KNOW the truth about you. That’s why they love you. If they knew the truth they would surely run away…just as you have run away from yourself for so many years…” and so I do not respond to any of them.

Do you know what it's like to feel trapped? That no matter where you turn there is no way out. The light is gradually ****** out of your life. You live in darkness. At first you are afraid of the dark and the agony, but after a while you get used to it. No matter where you turned, you find only pain and abandonment. And at first you find this unsettling you’re human and you crave love and connection. But as time passes you begin to realize that you are undeserving of this bond, and you become a shell with no soul. You no longer exist; you simply drift from moment to moment trying to keep some semblance of sanity. Certain people take notice, but fear overwhelms you and you remain silent. They cannot be trusted. No one can be trusted.

You were little, though in reality you were never allowed to be so, and you realized that is just isn't worth it. It is not worth the pain and heartache - and so you wait....in silence. You do what is expected of you and expect nothing of anyone else. It hurts more than anyone will ever know.*

You put up a front for show. You try to shield others from this darkness You were always a pawn in a sick and twisted game; you still are. Your pain does not matter, you do not matter. You become what he wants you to be. And nothing else. You give in to his commands. Partially out of fear but also because you no longer care, and it’s all you’ve ever known. You realized early on that your life is meaningless. You are an object, void of emotion or need. Evil things are said and done, and this is their warped vision of fun. You must deserve this. You must be inherently evil because a kind and gracious God would not allow this to happen. Time passes.......you are in need of guidance but too afraid to ask.

The nightmares from the past still linger, bleeding into your life now. Still, you wait, in silence. Still, you live in fear. There is too much confusion and chaos in your head. You want to scream, but you cry instead.

*It is the same now as it was then - crying - alone, lying bleeding on the cold floor. Praying for it all to end. Praying for it to be over. Praying to a God who never heard you then, the God who does not hear you now.

I am searching for my lost shaker of salt…I love salt. It’s true, I add salt to anything. I’m wondering what that says about me.

Sometimes when you’re alone in the middle of the night,it’s okay to distract yourself by singing Jimmy Buffet and blending up some frozen margs….(TIP: if you close the pantry door and put a towel over the blender, you can barely hear it so it won’t wake anyone up when you decide to make margaritas @ 2am– you’re welcome).

I’m distracting myself from the razor calling my name. I’m doing everything I can tonight to not regress into a bawling 5 year old or a psychotically angry teenager. So if that means making frozen margaritas on the floor of the pantry and singing Jimmy Buffet…well then “That’s the best I can do right now…”

I don’t know…sometimes I think I’ll just stop all of it. Therapy, talking, writing, reaching out at all, breathing…I mean, is there really a point in verbalizing your feelings of hopelessness and defeat when you’re just going to be dismissed or trivialized? Is it better to just shut up & pretend, to half-smile till you die, rather than reach out? As I’ve always said, why express needs that will never be met. Childish needs and fears that have no right to exist in my adult head.

Why…why…why…why in the world should I embarrass myself by speaking aloud all of this fear inside my head only to be told that it’s okay to have this need, or that need, but there’s no way for it to be met. I don’t get that. And it only makes me hate myself more for “needing” anything in the first place. Ah, the sordid talk of self-hatred. But is that what this is about now? Maybe…but maybe not. Maybe it’s more like shamefully wallowing in self-pity on the pantry floor.

Jimmy Buffet is singing, “Some people claim that there’s a woman to blame, but I know, it’s my own **** fault.” "It’s YOUR fault, Nita. No one else’s. How long are you going to hold this grudge against the host body, Nita? When will you realize that you can’t change the past…you can’t change how he feels about you now, Nita. Too bad. Get over it. It is time to move on.”

I have completely misplaced my gratitude and love for life and I am searching for it….I am desperately searching for it here in the middle of the night…I am looking all around. I am reaching far down into the bottom of my gut, the base of my soul, the deepest place in my heart… God! This weakness! This weak depressed worthless woman! I can’t stand her! Give it up girl! Stop with the wretched self-pity, the craving for normalcy…just stop with the whining, “Why the hell don’t I get to be like everyone else?” Just stop! I have been brought to my knees, shaken to the core. I have forgotten who I really am.

My whole life, I have been straddling this teeter totter, pressing my feet back and forth, seeking the balance I have never been able to find… God!! ******! I feel flushed and panicked and my head is spinning. I am screaming inside, “Please help me. Please come to me now and stay. Please stay with me in this place of darkness, this place of no hope or light.” (as if)

Nita takes a break to wipe away the never-ending flow of tears, blow her nose, and blend another round of margaritas for one! More salt… Cheers!

Feelings…feelings…feelings. They assault me like ****** fire, the bullets ricochet off of their unsuspecting target and slice open my thighs, my hip, my side…red, angry slashes. I have been hit again. I am walking around wounded, scarred, stunned. I’ve been told not to judge these feelings, or attach to them. They are neither good nor bad, Nita. Open the door to the pantry, Nita, and invite them in for coffee and cookies…get to know them, no matter how hostile they seem. All of them? There’s not enough room here. The guilt, as pure and raw as sugar cane, comes to show me the terrible things I’ve done, the shameful places I’ve been, the faces of those I have harmed. The rage! It cannot be quelled or quieted. The overwhelming smothering rage hits me square in the chest after I have removed my bullet-proof vest. I feel the sharp shrapnel piercing my skin, reaching the very core of me. You self-righteousness woman…you selfish, bitter woman…

I can’t control it. I can’t think or reason my way out. I can’t figure out how to fix it, or breathe through it. I feel the blood draining out of me, warm and cold at the same time; the bitterness, the anger, the badness, it drains out of me and soaks into the soft cotton of my clothing. The patterns speak to me: You are weak, Nita. You are a lesser person, negative, selfish, dramatic, needy. How I loathe you, girl…

A knock on the door bringing yet another guest? Shame…welcome one of my oldest and best friends. Shame…she is always there for me…there is always room for her. She sits next to me and slides her warm calloused hand over my shoulder and down my chest… just as he used to do. Her hot breath hisses in my ear, “You are nothing without me. You cannot speak without me. You cannot breathe without me, write without me, feel without me. Without me you are neither interesting nor desirable. Without me by your side you cannot cope or deal with anything. You are mine and I am yours. You are nothing without me. I am your secret. This is our secret. I will keep you safe. I will keep your secrets.” My dearest friend. I offer her a drink and she begins to bandage my wounds…our secret, our secret. I lean into her, my oldest friend, and I let her hold me, even as she cruelly speaks my biggest failures aloud to me. She knows what I deserve. She is mine and I am hers.

Here we sit together and alone, my friend and I… Wasted away again in Margaritaville….she is searching for a sign of worth…strength…purpose…will…of anything that resembles life…but she didn’t find it.

adult self:* *"Yeah,  I just wish I would have done something to stop everything from happening."
child self: "What do you mean?"
adult self: "Well, you know. The stuff with Father. I wish I would have done something to keep that from happening."
child self: "Like what?"
adult self: "I don’t know." I thought for a minute. "I just took it. I wish I would have stopped it all. I could have said something, told someone earlier. You know."
child self: "But how?"
adult self: "I don’t know! I’m not angry at you," I said quickly. *"I wish I’d have been stronger. I wish someone would have walked in on Father and me. Someone. I wish someone would have been there. Some kind of adult, someone who would have stopped it, or at least said to me, "It’s all right. It’s not your fault."

There are words that we say or hear in life; and once we say them, everything changes.
“I’m pregnant.”
“Will you marry me?”
“You got the job!”
“He didn’t make it…”
“I don’t love you.”
If we’re lucky, we only hear the good ones.
The ones that change our lives for the better.
But for most of us, it’s the tragic phrases that stay with us forever.
I’ve heard my fair share.
“I wish you had never been born.”
“We’re getting divorced.”
“We’re moving to Ohio.”
But it’s the words that I have had to say that have been the hardest.
These words are ones that I still trip over when I say them now, almost 30 years later. They’re words that make society as a whole take a step back and cringe.
They’re the words you never think you’ll say.
“I was sexually molested by my father.”
Even typing it feels wrong.
It still feels messy and forced.
I remember the first time I said it.
I did not want to say it.
When I said these words, I was dead inside.
Rotted from the inside out, like a tree that finally gives out after years of being gnawed on by bugs.
I also knew, however, that the second I said these words my entire life would change – even though I never could have prepared myself for the changes that would follow that day.
I remember being numb.
I think a part of me thought that because I said it, it was over.
I don’t know exactly what I was thinking in those moments.
But, those words made their way up my chest, into my throat, and finally out of my mouth.
And that meant that everything was different.
I remember explaining to the female police officer what my father had been doing to me.
I was angry that my mother had betrayed me by calling the police.
I knew that my life was over. I was exploding on the inside.
But I was also dead. On the inside, and seemingly on the outside.
I told her what had happened. Mostly because I wanted her to leave.
She nodded and took notes while I said those words that I never wanted to say.
And then she told me that I had to go to the hospital.
More words I could not understand.
I was not sure why – it had been happening for years. I tried to protest, but she insisted.
My words didn’t matter.
She asked me to get dressed, and said that she’d wait downstairs.
I don’t remember getting dressed.
The next thing I remember was walking downstairs and seeing my grandfather there.
He stood in the doorway, and I froze when I saw him.
I could see a police car in the driveway.
“Nita Girl, your father has been touching you?”
More words that I could not comprehend.
I could not believe that these words were coming out of his mouth.
I just nodded.
My mother drove me to the hospital. I don’t remember the words we said in the car. I can’t imagine what words we would have had to say to each other in those moments.
They put me in a triage room with just a curtain, in the middle of the E.R.
I remember thinking to myself that people were probably wondering why I was there, with two police officers.
And I didn’t even look sick.
They left us in that room for a long time.
Forever. Just my mom and I.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, a nurse came in. I don’t remember much, except being handed a cup and ushered into the bathroom to give a ***** sample.
They were going to check my ***** for STDs.
STDs.
I was only 10.
I had never even thought of STDs.
Words like “***”
What the hell were these words? How could they ever apply to me?
Then they took vials of blood. I remember watching when they stuck the needle inside my arm, and I felt nothing. My mother told me to look away. She offered her hand for me to hold. I just kept looking at my arm, watching someone else’s blood rush into the containers.
It couldn’t be my blood. It couldn’t be my body.
This couldn’t actually be happening. I was a zombie who was still breathing somehow.
I kept up that persona during the exam. It’s a blur.
I remember having to repeat the words to every nurse and doctor who came to examine me.
They weren’t even words anymore.
Just a monologue that I had become too familiar with.
The next thing I remember was finally crying.
It was after I had been examined, and every fluid my body produced had been taken for testing.
It was after we told the police officers that we would be at the station first thing in the morning for a formal statement.
We walked through the doors of the hospital, and my legs gave out from under me.
I remember thinking that my life was actually over.
And looking back on it, I guess it was.
That part of my life was over.
Things would never be the same.
They’re still not the same.
There were so many words after that.
Words that became routine.
Words that as a 10 year-old, I had never said in front of my mother. Or to an adult.
Words like “*****.”
And “*****.”
And “*******.”
Words like “*****.”
And “drunk.”
And “oral ***.”
I didn’t even know the words for some of the things that had happened.
But I learned them.
In interview rooms.
With police officers recording my words.
Writing down my words.
I remember the words my mother said when they finally charged him.
I remember what he finally got sentenced to.
“****** assault therapy.”
And I remember all the words I did not say.
I remember living in my bed for weeks.
I remember the fits of rage.
I remember my mother.
Who had been torn open from the inside out.
I remember words like “I want to die.”
And “What am I going to do now?”
Even now these words make my stomach turn.
These words that seem to belong to someone else.
Someone weaker. And more naïve.
Not me.
My words are different now.
Words like “Friends.”
And there are still words that I struggle with.
Words like “Love.”
“Past.”
“Forgiveness.”
Words like *“Survivor.”

I feel like I don't belong on this planet.
Like I am an alien and every day I wake up and put this human suit on.
I zip it up, look in the mirror,
Adjust it, and go out and enter the world.

Desperately trying to blend with the other civilians.
I don't understand their language,
Or their struggles that seem so big to them,
Yet so small to me.
I don't get them.

They cannot see the little green alien monster that I am inside.
They see what I show them.
A regular girl that hides behind a smile.
I have them all fooled.
They think I am like them.
But I come from a different type of world.

A very dark and scary place.
A wasteland full of trash and rotting things.
Everyone is angry there and everyone is unkind.
There are other girls, aliens like me there
And they go by names like *****, Filthy, and Shame.
My name on that planet was Ugly because that what I felt inside.

That's what those unkind people told me I was.
I hated that horrible planet.
10 years of my life I wasted there.
But then I grew up and I moved far away.

The people here don't understand
What it's like to live in a world that could be filled with such hurt.
Or what it’s like to be named Ugly, Filthy, or *****.
We aliens work so hard to fit in,
Be like everyone, not stand out
Or be judged for what we suffered or from where we come from.

But...sometimes that mask we put up, our human suit slowly starts to slip off. Revealing parts of who we really are.
And sometimes when people see this,
People that do not understand, they get scared.
What we have gone through makes others uncomfortable.
Some choose to walk away from us, leaving us when we need them most.

When this happens I build my human suit tougher.
Shielding more of me and pretending to be this new person.
But if I need to pretend to keep these people in my life...
Do I even really want them there?
This suit I carry weighs me down.
I need people who don't care where I come from, or how different I am.
I need them to just care about me.
The real me. Not who I try to be for them.
I need people that will help take the weight of the world off my shoulders.

If I am different,
If I am a little green alien not like everyone else
Then I think it’s okay to be who I am.
It's okay to be different.

I will never return to that place I came from.
This is my home now and I don't want to blend anymore.
I want to stand out.
And I want to support all of the other people out there that don't fit in either.
By being different we form a solid union of uniquely similar people.
We are all different and that makes us all the same.
And we should all be able to live without judgments.
Not having to hide where we come from
Or be ashamed of a life we had no control over.

I'm tired of hiding me.
I am who I am.
I come from where I come from.
You either accept me or you don't.
You either love me or you don't.

We took a drive down a dirt road and
          parked in our secret spot.

You said you loved me
          and then you kissed me on the lips.

You touched me all over
          with your fingertips.

You caressed my inner thighs and
          then you ****** yourself inside.

With every ****** in my mind I scream
          No daddy no don't do this to me.

Finally it's over and you wipe the tears
         from my eyes and tell me not to cry.

You say you love me and that it's okay
         I am your special little girl once again
         and we are back on our way.

I have been shutting the memories out of my head all day. My mind wants to remember more. My mind wants to force all that bad ugliness In. "I cannot just sit and think about this now I'm working!" I tell my mind. It does not listen, It forces It's way in anyways. I cannot run from It, I cannot hide from It. And I cannot function without It spilling into my brain like poison. I can tell It to go away, or come again another day. But when I shut It out I feel worse, I hurt worse. And It does not stay away for long. It always creeps back in on me, leaving me with this black cloud of pain above my head hanging there for the world to see. I wish I could release all of this hurt that is on my heart, just let It all go with one single action. Be done and move on. But it is not that simple. I do not want to remember today. I want a break. I am playing a game of tug-a-war with my brain. It's pulling the rope tighter and harder on It's end, while I lose the battle due to my weakness and crash to the earth face first. I do not want to remember today. I do not want to cry. I refuse to close my eyes; I refuse to let It control me today. I just want a break.

Please go away bad things I beg of you now.
I wish to sleep but I don't know how

I don't like these memories, or these pictures that I see
I screamed and cried but no one ever came to save me

Please go away and don't bring any more pain
GO AWAY I feel like if you don't I will go insane

I don't want to feel, or remember his touch
Run away memories, I don't want to see you, it hurts too much

Please go away, you've shown me what I never wanted to see
Slip from my mind, vanish from my thoughts, please just let me be

I don't want to remember his smile, sweat or his smell
Or the way he made that tiny baby promise not to tell

Please go away bad memories, It pains me to breath
Everything hurts, I need time to grieve

I don't like the dirtiness and the way I've carried this shame
I've spent my whole life walking this earth thinking I was to blame

Please go away bad memories, I wish that you had never come
When you grace my presence you make me feel numb

I don't like to hear the voice In my head of that child begging him to stop
Or remember as he didn't listen, threw her down, and climbed on top

Please go away bad memories you make my body remember what it once forgot
I also remember dolls, jewelry, and toys he left, making him think forgiveness he'd bought

I do not wish to see any further or to remember the blood that ran down her skin
What that father did was wrong, sick, and disgusting, It was the ultimate sin

Please go away I hate everything I see in these horrible, hurtful things
I feel like a bird lying waiting to die with its broken tattered wings

I do not wish to know what was done, be a victim, or live any longer in this past
I ache, I hurt, I scream, I cry, I beg, I see, I remember how long will this last?

Please go away all sadness you've been here far, far too long
My heart is always aching and singing its sad, sad song

I don't like these bad dreams or this life living with these fears
My heart is heavy and my body is raw, I am blinded by my tears

Please go away bad things I beg of you now
*I wish to sleep but I don't know how

Last night he proved that after almost 30 years he still has control over me.

His voice…his touch…they turn me back into the little girl of 5…I have no voice of my own…I have no power to deny him…

I cry…I plead…all to no avail…

I try to find my voice…I want to demand answers…instead I am quiet and submissive….

Today

Today I am ashamed…how does he still have that power? Why do I not speak up? I am not that little girl anymore…

Today I am 5 years old and trapped in an adult body…I want to hid in my closet and not come out…instead life demands that I play my role…

My heart breaks….

The battle in my head
It goes like this…

You know you wanted it.
I was not old enough to know what it was. When I was, I said no. He never listened…

I went to him even when he did not ask. I am at fault.
I loved him. I believed his lies. I trusted him. I did not know it was abuse.

I am dramatic. I am emotional. I am over-reacting.
He stole my innocence. He stole my childhood. I have every right to be this way.

He did not mean to hurt me. He loves me, maybe he just did not know how to show it.
That is not love. That is abuse. I was a child. I was not responsible.

Stop whining. Stop complaining. There are others out there who have it worse then you.
He bruised my faith. He destroyed my feelings of worth.

He loved me. He did not mean to hurt me.
It does not matter if he meant to or not…the truth is he did.

How sick and mess up must I be? I still care about him.
It is natural to be confused and conflicted. He is family.

Most of the time I did not say no or fight him. So I was telling him it was okay.
He was manipulating a child. I was confused. I did not know how to say no.

I must have wanted it. I must have led him on.
No matter what I did, he was the adult. He was not supposed to do those things. He was wrong. I was the child.

It was so long ago. How can I still be mad at him?
He manipulated my emotions. He was my daddy. You are supposed to obey and trust your father. He is not supposed to lie to you or do bad things.

Other people have been through worse. It could have been worse. So it's not really a big deal.
It was bad enough. I am entitled to feel violated. Trauma is trauma - pain is not a competition.

I should be over this by now.
There is no time limit on healing.
I must just be doing this for the attention.
If I wanted attention I would be telling everyone. I can barely talk about this.

I made him angry
So what? It doesn't make what he did okay

I am just imagining it.
I remember what he felt like when he touched me or made me touch him. I can still feel the weight of his heavy body on my child sized one. I can still smell his breath.  I cannot be making these feelings up.

The little girl inside
Still cries for protection.
But there is no one is sight.
Dark and quiet is the room
Then a creaking of the door
And with the noise, an evil looms.
I am not safe anymore
Or any less than before.
And in my heart, years later,
I still, sometimes, do not feel any safer.

Innocence splintered in just one second.
Teardrops stained the bed of roses.
Cries screamed out from the ignorant.
Purity taken along with her voice.
Stripped down to just empty sighs.
Slammed against the walls of seclusion.
Trust disappears with ***** promised secrets.
Ripped apart until pieces are left.
Gathering up the broken life bits.
Together they make a complex puzzle.
They are still alone for now.
Jagged edges are hard to force.

I thought about calling someone, anyone
I thought it would help to talk
But what do you say
When all the pain has this way
Of shutting you up
In your own personal Hell.
The silence grows, ringing in my ears
But I like it that way.
It is so much easier to hide
When the pain stays inside.
I do not want to talk to someone that does not know
Someone that has never tasted the wound.
I do not want their pity
Or their, "It'll get better."
I do not cry and that is not a lie
I break and scream
And try to remain unseen.
Do you really want to know?
Do you really want to feel it?
Let it burn you
Let it cut into you.
Do not ask me if I am okay
When you already know the answer.
Let me sleep without the agony
Of your worry.
God, let me sleep
Let me wake and deal with another day
In just the same way.
Biting and breaking the surface
Of each second reminding me I never really change.
I just rearrange things until they seem right.
Oh, God, let me sleep
And dream of better things.

Trapped in this mind
An impossible box
No escape from the madness.

Tiny locks everywhere
None of the keys fit
Failed attempts at happiness.

Was I born with it?
Did it happen out of nowhere?
No answers to be found.

Every part of my being aches
An insatiable urge to end it
Sweet freedom escapes me.

Crying alone in the dark
No longer able to function
Hit the exit button now.

If there is a god
Surely a supreme being
Offers no punishment

No justification for being here
I am not the one who leaves
Always the one to be left.

They leave one by one
Some by death
Some by betrayal.

The space gets lonelier
It gets colder
It closes in on me.

Suffocating under the weight
Of a sadness that never ceases
Overtaking my heart and mind.

I feel like I am in constant state of falling. Like when you are having a dream and you fall off a cliff, and then you wake up kicking and trying to grab hold of something. That is how I feel when I am awake. The ground just suddenly shifts out from under me and I fall. I am constantly kicking and grabbing. Searching for something or someone to save me. But I just keep falling.

I am falling into a never ending tunnel. I am being swallowed up by the earth. These dark memories of him wash over me and I start to fall to my death. I am falling. As I fall I remember his lies. As I fall I feel his touch.  As I fall I see him watching me. As I fall I hear his voice making promises he could not keep. I am falling. There is nothing, no one to save me.
I am searching for something or someone to save me. But I just keep falling.

I am so tired of kicking and fighting. The constant searching for that thing to save me. What if I am wasting all my time and energy just grabbing at thin air? I wait and I wait and I wait for the end…the big SMACK. The sound it will make when I have stopped falling. Then will all this pain be over but that never happens.
I am searching for something or someone to save me. But I just keep falling.

Something always pulls me back up, briefly I regain my footing. But why? Why can the pain not just be over? What is saving me when I cannot even save myself? Why am I here fighting so hard every day, fighting so hard just to exist? Breathing and existing, carrying on in this world takes so much effort.
I am searching for something or someone to save me. But I just keep falling.

Why am I fighting so hard? What if forever I stay broken, hurt, sad, and unsure? What if this is my forever? Each day breathing and existing…carrying on only to have him come back and hurt me again. What is my purpose for fighting so hard? I wish someone could tell me….stop the perpetual fall.
I am searching for something or someone to save me. But I just keep falling.

Why am I fighting so hard? Help me understand. Tell me that one day things will be okay. One day I will be stronger, wiser, and braver.  And soon I won't feel like I'm falling anymore but like I am solidly placed in this world. That my life has a meaning, that all my fighting, and suffering, and searching, and agony was not in vain.
But for now I am searching for something or someone to save me…I just keep falling.

The contrast of shiny steel and dark crimson, the contrast of man and metal. Tonight the blade will once again free the blood that is restrained by my skin. Sitting on the floor, with my legs pulled close, I cannot wait to feel the rush of the calm. It is rushing through my mind right now, blocking out all other thoughts. The exquisite yet simple pain of the cold steel parting my skin. Watching the layers of my skin part under the pressure, feeling my pulse push the blood up through the cut. Then gravity pulling it down along my skin until it finally hits the floor. The calmness slows down time, giving me a chance to watch the blood drops form, then fall to the cold,hard floor below. The tip of a droplet hits the tile, the force of the impact creating a smaller ring of droplets that strain against the gravity, soon to be overcome, and pulled downward. The next drop contributing to the rippling pool of crimson love on the floor. I cannot pull my eyes away from the pool of blood on the floor. The drops now starting to fall faster, fast enough that I cannot see the individual drops, that I cannot distinguish them from the previous ones. Once the individuality of the drops cannot be seen, I cut no more. For now the angry creature inside me is spent, he has no more tales to tell. The drops start to come slower now, seemingly holding on to my body before they drop. As if, they know they are falling without reason now. Finally the flow stops, my pulse is slow, my breathing relaxed.