I don’t want to write about this.
I don’t want to write about this because I am frightened by the depth of these feelings.
I hate it when people tell me to take care of myself, I nod, I say that I will but inside I hate those words. It rouses a powerful anger, a childish rage. After all I have always had to take care of myself. In a literal sense it has been the case since I was 9, but before then too.
Yes there were people who helped but it was never consistent or secure. When it came to it, all I had was my cupboard where I hid in with my cuddly toys, often afraid to even breath.
Those rare times when I did share a tiny bit of my suffering it would always get back to mother. I risked it twice, and twice I was promised that nothing bad would happen and twice they told her.
And mother told them that I was fragile, overly sensitive, with an active imagination, that I read to many books, that I was just looking for attention. Both times they bought it. Both times she punished me.
That’s how I learned never to trust people. At least not with the important stuff. I learned to hide myself deep inside, to live a silent life. The I that I was became mute.
And yes I have a good life now, but it is a half life, watched by that silent part where my unexpressed anger and unshed tears reside.
I don’t want to write about this, but I see her deep inside, I feel her, she is frightened and alone, and I can’t help her, I don’t know how.
I resent the depth of her neediness, I hate the way she craves comfort, the way she squirms inside my mind desperate for acknowledgement, I hate the way her tiny voice leaks out through mine, incoherent and full of uncontrollable emotions. I hate the way her eyes look at me in the mirror, full of the betrayal of the many people that left her, left her in that cold and brutal place.
I don’t want to write about this but I guess I left her too.