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BloodShed_ChimeraPersona   1y ago

I’ve looked back on who I was. All the things I wrote. All the things I’ve said. All the things I’ve done. So much of it is so untrue. So much of it is embellished or lies. So much of it was to make someone jealous or to make me seem like there were things going on in my life. So much of it was to cover the pain I was feeling.

Early on I was really depressed (who isn’t these days, amiright?) I was suicidal and wanted to hurt physically but at the same time be treated like fine china. It has cracks, damage, but maintains its beauty. I learned that that wasn’t possible. I learned that most of the time you think you need someone on the outside, gluing your pieces together. I learned that you have to give yourself time for the glue to dry before adding another layer.

I used to rely so heavily on people,I ran from person to person searching for someone to validate me. Searching for someone to tell me it’s not my fault. God how I wish someone would have grabbed me by my shoulders and shook the absolute shit out of me.

Even now, I rely so much on the people around me. I give excuses for why. I can’t afford childcare so I can’t work. We have a constant custody battles so the kids need to be handled carefully. Strict rules in place to avoid legal issues. I have to enforce everything because no one else knows. No one else understands to it has to be me. I’m just scared. Fear is my reason for reliance. And yet, fear is my reason for reluctance.

I take only what I need, even sometimes less. We’re partners and yet I try to do what I can when I can because what else am I bringing the table? If I need something it means having less for someone else. It’s driving me nuts. My desire to provide for myself and yet not having a way.

I saw those around me struggling. I saw those around me in pain and I didn’t help like I should have.
I left.

I moved to another state and now across the country. Very little contact with those from my past. Honestly I have considered on many occasions just deleting everyone from back there. Getting rid of that last piece of my teenage years. I’m still sort of friends with some of them. But is it worth it? I mean, we really don’t talk. We occasionally like one another’s posts but is there really much else? I suppose not.

I’m still holding on here. Sure, under a ‘new’ name but I’m sure if certain people looked they’d notice who this is. Are they around anymore? Often I wonder if they look for me. If they search for my generic brand of bullshit. Wonder if the lightbulb above their head goes off and they think “ah, yeah, it’s that bitch”

I search for you. There are weird periods of time that I’ll rake through my memory, pick out those who mattered the most and make sure you’re alright.

I remember his lion’s mane

I still remember her eyes.

There are times I’ll find someone who has scarred me so back I search them to ensure they’re far from me.

I still feel the pain in my neck.

I still smell his cologne.

I still wake some nights in a sweat. I still cry in the shower.
It’s been a while.

I have found new ways to smile. I have found new ways to try to build up from the person I once was. I wish I could apologize to everyone.

The regret has built up so much but there is only so much I can do.

I had a house. I lived there for seventeen days. I bought some really nice blue dishes. The house wasn’t perfect. A simple two bedroom one-and-a-half bathroom. I didn’t even have a shower, just a bathtub but god I loved that place. I only got to cook dinner twice. I only made breakfast a couple times. The one real thing I did was cry.
I cried in happiness when I moved in. In frustration getting all the furniture picked out, built, and moved around myself. I cried in anger when I found the photos and in confusion when I was told to let it go. I cried in sadness as I continued to set up and in betrayal when he didn’t stop. I cried in fear when there was a knife to my back and as I packed my things in the house I had loved but had grown to hate.

And the desire to cry has returned. Thinking about all those things just puts me back.

Funny little thing.

The unicorn bracelet broke.

The scrapbook burned

The notes shredded

The T-Shirt donated

It’s healthy, right?

Why did it take me so long to move on? I mean, even now, am I really?

I wrote an apology to the first one to matter. He’ll never see it. Was it to clear my head or to make amends? Was it selfish after all I did? Probably.

This is all I have time for today... maybe more writing therapy tomorrow.


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