Told I didn't matter. By my father no less. This is an old memory, I don't know why I still remember it. He told me once that if he and my mother had only had ten kids. Then, it wouldn't have mattered if I ran away. It wouldn't matter if I fucked up royally since they'd have ten, precious children who wouldn't have done the things I did. I'll never be good enough for them, will I? I'll never be good enough for anyone and maybe that's okay. I'll be alone, with a revolving door for people to come in and go out. Perhaps I like it better that way. I never want to hear someone say those words again. "you're not good enough".
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The best part of my day was hearing the words "I understand". I know you don't. You're not me and I'm not you. But to meet someone who's at least gone through something similar was a touching experience in more ways than I seek to understand. To hear that they've experienced their own sense of instability and stress was a relief. To see the proof that they conquered that tumultuous time? I needed that. I needed to hear those words, even if I didn't ask for them. I'm realizing now it's okay to desire that. Sometimes, being on here, I feel like I'm drowning. Drowning in an unending sea of pain. In the darkest moments, it's nice to find another victim who's struggling with that pain. But it's so easy to drown in that. To get overwhelmed and think to myself, the mundane stressors of life have no place here. This situation isn't dark enough. It isn't pressing enough. It's not bad enough. So it was nice for someone to see what I built in my head as too simple and boring to be stressful as simply that. Painful and stressful.
A little girl lives within me, harboring my painful truths. I close my eyes and escape to her world. The nightmare, I've named it, affectionately. So simply, this little girl's reality. I hear her cries, pleading, yearning, rabid and unending. Flailing about, destroying everything she comes in contact with. She doesn't care about image, or prestige or family honor. She's simply hurt. The little girl is desperate. She grasps at the shadows of a mother and father, begging them to stay. Begging for love and peace. She bleeds in her effort to both create and maintain a home. She'll tell anyone who will listen, of her pain. Of her desires. She wants a friend. She wants parents. She doesn't want to play pretend with these strange men, she wants a lover who will remain. She wants to be loved and cared for. What she'd give for a home. To be understood. She'll grow wings, if she must, but underneath her breath and then aloud, "Please don't make me leave". She doesn't really want this independence. Not like this. There's a familiarity to this pain.