(This is all part of the journey to my own peace. The Journey began with A Letter to Dad – on say it with a bang, you may want to start there.)
Thunder rumbles in the distance, as lighting flashes an eerie glow through the night’s sky and the rain falls to earth like the tears that invade these pages. They smudge the ink and my thoughts collide into smeared words of unplaced hate – for a past I can’t replace. I lay down the pad and toss the pen away for another day: I slide down into bed with the hopes of drifting off into a deep sleep, but the thoughts always seem to race faster once my head hits the pillow.
They’re the monsters that creep in late at night as I fight to find sleep, in a sea of memories that leave me enraged all over again. I lay down to rest but instead the memories come in on repeat and I re-fight the battles I’ll never win: hoping to put them to rest in my head, once again. My brain throbs as I mentally retaliate against all the hate being thrown my way.
“You’re a waste of space.”
“Your Mother should be ashamed.”
I admit, back then I felt the same: but still I bob and weave at every shot they take at me and eventually I win as they fade away into blank space; but then reality always comes back to me and I realize it’s all still just a fantasy I created to regain power over me. The scenes are identical and their explosive remarks go unchanged – but it’s me that’s not the same.
I no longer sit with a bowed head as I fight feverishly to cry quietly. Mentally repeating: “Don’t cry, they don’t deserve that satisfaction,” it’s my mantra as I try with all my might to keep the dam closed tight: Every jagged word they throw rips through my soul like a heated knife and with every slice – I let another piece of me go.
“You’ve never been grateful for anything we’ve done for you. I remember Christmas last year, you weren’t grateful for a thing, were you? What we do is never good enough for you. How dare you judge us, you’re just a child.” (Their voices grow louder, and the words become harsher, as they continue on yet another tangent about how terrible of a person I am.)
“I’m grateful, I’m grateful. How many times do I have to say thank you to show that I’m thankful?” (My words just squeak out, though I know speaking isn’t the right thing to do: like the tears, it just adds fuel to the fire and gives them the twisted satisfaction they seem to obtain from what they claim to be discipline.)
“You’re just another smart mouthed whore. Your mother should lock you away. You’ll end up having sex with everyone, and I won’t support a baby” (I paraphrase, the words were far more explicit and the whole rant was filled with way more hate but, some things even I dare not say.)
“I’m only a kid, I don’t even know what sex is.” (Okay, so maybe I didn’t say it, but I thought it so many times. The attacks usually came with subjects I didn’t yet understand.)
I take more stabs than I can count and before I know it, the dam always fails me as the flood of a thousand rains pours down my face and just like that, they win another round of this twisted game, I wish so desperately to escape.
In my fantasy though, I’m always bold with a body of stone and I cleverly deflect every warped word they launch at me. The mantra no longer needs repeating, as I stand facing the demons I once bowed to: I scream every obscenity I can create – in a violent outrage – to upstage every outrageous indignation they had placed on me. I fight like the grown-up I had so wished to be, when cowering in that sit, as their words ripped through me.
I scream and shout as I spew every repulsively twisted word they had shoved down my throat and forced me to swallow for so long. I fill them with the hate I held in and watch as they expand with every line I feed them: before long, they just explode into a billion little pieces that I watch drift away in the light of a new day.
But like I said, it’s all just a fantasy, created to regain power over me and eventually reality always returns to prove that I’m still that broken little girl: trapped in a cycle of re-fighting battles I’ll never really win. Grasping for peace from the monsters I keep deep within. They’re the scars that never show, but continuously grow, in the lost souls of damaged people – who never got a chance to lay their pain to rest.
In this vicious cycle of self-torture: I’ve come to find my journey; I wish to no longer be restrained by the -forever- unexplained -absurd- obsessions, that raged in two broken people, who -unfortunately for me- were allowed to be parents. I wish to no longer be the person who formed from years of depression, over the hate that was poured into me – simply because they couldn’t pour it into those who had done them wrong, years before I came along.
I wish to make sure the pattern of hate does not continue in me; I wish to be free of the memories that constantly haunt me, on those late nights; I wish to be a better me: a happier me; but mostly, I wish to end this battle I constantly fight to lay my past to rest.
I’m in search of peace, understanding, and who I am: without all this stored-up anger, over things I can never change. A journey to moving on, letting go, and becoming whole.
(The Journey to my own piece continues with Dear Lost Soul.)