there’s this thing i have a way to cope with the anxiety that even though i am almost done with therapy for as long as i like is still a constant thing
you see, i count by even numbers maybe because ending on an odd number makes my breath puff out before leaving my lungs and my head starts to spin
i count evenly on each inhale and exhale the number of scars on my arm the years i spent putting those scars there the times my mother told me she never wanted kids and how long it took me to get over that before she went and said it again
and i count the times that my mother has said sorry though that takes less than all five fingers on one hand because the things that she has not apologized for still keep me up at night
like sending me to school with fresh bruises in the shape of her fingers wrapping around my upper arms like chasing me up to my room and cornering me and shaking me with spit landing on my face from how much and how loud she was screaming like trapping me up against the corner and pressing her ******* up against my back and grinding up against me until i said “enough” and she replied in swears and blaming me like her basically sexually assaulting me was somehow my fault
and when i told the counselor at my school what had happened after my friends agreed i should go that led to my telling a cop through sobs and so many tears what my mother had done how she had used me i counted the number of pills i had taken two years prior in an attempt to take my own life and felt a feeling like i should have known that forty wasn’t going to be enough
Just to clarify, I no longer live with my mother. But not because she sexually assaulted me; because she kicked me out twice. She also doesn't remember the assault, because she was intoxicated off a mixture of alcohol and **** at the time. I've actually kind of forgiven her for it, I guess. I mean, it's something that I'm never going to forget, but I have moved passed it. I am also never going to tell her what she did, because she literally denies the eleven years of abuse she inflicted upon me. Anyway, I am safe and okay and have a way healthier relationship with my mother than I ever did when I was living with her. Kinda ***** that that's what it took for her to finally be a parent, but one parent is better than two that are abusive *******, yanno. So, really, I am just venting here, nothing more. I'm alright. I'm okay.