I wanna write. And I know that it should be easy; Just. Fucking. Write.
Fact is that it’s hard to concentrate on writing when the inner demons are shouting at you that you are annoying and that people are tired of hearing talk about your horrible past and your painful present. It’s hard to be creative when snakes slither at your feet, whispering that you have no talent, nothing interesting to say.
Where does one find the courage to put down in writing things that your mind tells you is stupid and shameful.
All these words. These painful, hurtful words.
So many more words… They’re not my fucking words. They’re the words of the people who abused me. They’re not my words. But they are spoken with my voice. I repeat them. I repeat them, not because I believe them but because I do not believe the opposite of them. I repeat them because I do not believe I am useful, intelligent, beautiful, interesting, engaging, welcome, talented, a blessing, friendly… As much as I do not want to believe the negative, all of those words were so deeply hammered into me at such a young age that it destroyed my self-confidence. I believe I am bad, faulty, damaged and not worth saving.
I’m fighting those last three words. Not worth saving. Even now as I sit here, looking at the words, I feel it: Not worth saving. Not worth the trouble. Too far gone.
Many people tell me that writing could be my salvation. They tell me I do it so well, so eloquently… I want to believe that. I try to believe that. I suppose the fact that I am sitting here, writing this post, means that I do believe it a little bit. Either that or I am a sucker for pain… When I reach out and get no response, I become convinced that people are sick and fucking tired of me and my incessant whining. Deep down I am certain some people sigh and roll their eyes at my posts on Facebook, Instagram, here…
It’s all borne of a desperate need to be loved. A desperate need for tenderness and acceptance. A desperate need for what was denied for so long. And now I am a black hole; no matter how much I am told that I am appreciated and loved, I can’t seem to believe it. Not truly. Not fully.
God… I’m turning into my mother. She never believes it when people tell her they love her. I don’t want to turn into her. I want to be me.
I’m getting to know myself. I’m falling in love with the woman I am… and yet… I am falling in love with this broken and battered animal that I am inside. I need to learn to believe the good and not need the reassurance of others. But that goal seems so far… Right now I NEED reassurance. And I feel profoundly ashamed of that. I need tenderness… I need tenderness… I am small and afraid… I need tenderness.