My dissociation is bad today. I can’t focus on anything, not even writing this. I’m attempting to at least write a post though so I can ground myself to something. My heart is beating fast, my anxiety levels are high. I want to run away. I always want to run away. Why do I want to run away?
How did this happen, why am I this way? I hate to get all psychological but… what part of my childhood did this stem from? Children are sponges, and we absorb everything we experience as we grow. Everyone endures some sort of abuse, right? Isn’t that normal? We are all just a product of our former selves. My former self apparently didn’t bloom in a sunny and well-tended garden… I bloomed in adversity. I bloomed in the dark.
I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I don’t want pity. I just don’t know how else to process the last 29 years of my life. This isn’t going to get easier, is it? This is under my skin at all times, whether I’m listening to it more closely than other times. I can’t just ignore it all the time. It eventually strangles me until I can’t breathe anymore and I have to give it my attention.
Today it is incredibly heavy on my chest. All my sorrows and stress tend to reside in the core center of my chest. Every breath feels like too much work to even bother. In the midst of the public eye, this weight remains. I don’t know if anybody can see it squashing me though. Are we all carrying a weight that nobody sees? Maybe some others do see it. Maybe they do, but they choose to ignore it. Society is a sick, weird and sad thing.
The weight brings me down to the edge of what strength I ever had inside me. It’s trying to throw me off the cliff. Many times I fight back and the weight crumbles a little, enough to pull it back off the cliff so I can flee to safety. But then there are other times–like now–where it grows. The pebble becomes a small rock, the small rock continues to grow until it’s a jagged boulder. I can’t touch it, I can’t pull myself to safety. The boulder keeps rolling off the cliff, and suddenly I’m falling from grace… and I just let it happen.
It’s a tiring fight. Maybe it’s harder for others. Maybe I’m weak. People tell me I’m strong, but am I really? I think they say that just to be nice so I don’t feel any worse than I already do. Just when I think I have a handle on my brain, it decides to self-destruct. I feel like I’m back at square one. I know I have the capability to repair this, but that weight is just too much. I just lie here, waiting for the moment where I can pick myself up off the floor and rebuild.
But broken people create broken people. That’s what happened with me, I suppose. I was raised by somebody who was so shattered that putting those pieces back together was not possible. When you’d try to repair them, they’d fall apart again. That was given to me, too. Perhaps my self-awareness makes it more possible to stay glued back together longer, but I always shatter again, and often. Then the people around me get sick of getting cut by my shards and keep their distance. I don’t blame them, I can’t expect others to sacrifice their flesh to keep me together.
Why does this have to stay with me? Why are we all embedded with these qualities that we never even asked for to begin with? I know there’s so much more to me than my trauma.
It doesn’t completely define me.
But it’s there, and I can’t try to make it seem like it isn’t part of me, because it is… and it always will be.
I’m healing in my own ways, and it’s an endless process. It’s not pretty a lot of the time. By creating this blog and writing out my darkest thoughts and feelings, I’m trying to expel it. Honestly though, it doesn’t work sometimes. As I write this, I’m not feeling the weight getting smaller. I’m not feeling my breath come back into me. I’m not feeling the life in me get brighter. I’m not feeling connected to my core. I’m feeling alone and hopeless. How do you tell somebody that? How do you look someone in the eye and say you’re suffering? Can they see that pain inside your eyes or are they too out of touch to try and lend a hand? My eyes look down, my voice tightens. I can’t convey the pain I feel. So I think people just tend to think I’m doing alright.
I hate feeling alone when I’m with people. The mental isolation is exhausting. You hear that voice in your head saying you’re not good enough for them. You hear it saying you’ll never measure up to their standards. The poisonous self-assurance infects you faster and faster and it’s all you can hear. How do you tell somebody this? Can anybody even answer that? I can’t. I can’t speak for myself. So help doesn’t come because my voice is gone. Then when I feel like I’m able to even whisper for help, it’s too late by then.
While my public dissociation continues, the world keeps turning. It stops for nobody. People exist in their own personal bubbles, some attached to another person’s bubble. I look around my glazed eyes trying to take in something, but I just see a mess of colors and a reality I can’t hold on to. The same songs continue to repeat in my ears, and I haven’t quite noticed until now, and I don’t really care. Life is a series of repeats, anyway.
I want some help. I don’t know how to ask for it. But my white flag is up.
I don’t want my death wish to play out.
I hope it’s not too late.