Sharing the writing that came out of a writing prompt this morning. This one kind of messed with me:
No one will break? No one will cry? No one will turn to stone? No one will turn away?
“You cannot truly grieve within and remain composed without.” – I’ve been doing that for A YEAR (almost to the date exactly a year). My outside life and world has changed vastly but it hasn’t come crashing down. It hasn’t lost its composure. Because it can’t. Because I can’t handle that. Because I can’t go there. So it doesn’t because it can’t.
That doesn’t mean what I’m doing and what I’ve been doing for this past year isn’t TRUE. I rarely use the word “grieving” to describe what I’m doing… because I just don’t feel right about it… but that IS what I am doing, and I am doing it.
Just because I don’t fall apart on the outside doesn’t mean that this isn’t real or true or… happening. “I could pretend, but that pretending cost me. I could be reasonable, but telling that lie was exhausting.” – I did pretend. I pretended for years. And it DID cost me. It was exhausting. Perhaps what it cost me was my ability to fall apart on the outside – because I never could so I never did.
“Emotion is an extroverted phenomenon, and it cannot find its much-needed release if expressed only internally. Denied an outward expression, grief grows stronger and organizes itself like a hurricane that can rise up and sweep us away.”
I often feel the threat of this. Or the worry of it. The idea that… one wrong move, one wrong word, everything will come crashing down. Everything.
“Conceal. Don’t feel. Put on a show. Make one wrong move and everyone will know.”
These walls and this safety that I’ve built. These emotions that everyone thinks I should have that I don’t have but maybe they’re in there somewhere. Everything. Comes. Tumbling. Down.
If that happens… I don’t know. I don’t know what will happen. I don’t know what I will do.
“Or worse, continue to live, untouched by what you’ve lived?” – I’ve often wondered about this. I resent the word “worse” here. Who is to say that is worse? Who is to say that things weren’t better or easier when this was all just inside and totally dormant? Who says? And why do they get a say? I’ve questioned whether I could go back to this place: it wouldn’t take a lot, or maybe it would take everything. It would mean cutting ties. It would mean… putting up walls that are down now. It would mean a lot of things, but also not a lot of things. I could do that. And some days I yearn for that. Some days I honestly have no idea why I don’t just do that, as if it is inevitable. Some days I believe that doing that means the whole process of the last year will just inevitably come out again at another time.
And as a total left turn to try to get back on topic… sometimes I like the redemptive storylines that seem to be being written a lot more of late. I like reading or watching the reasoning behind why some characters are the way they are… why is the Evil Queen evil and what did she really have against Snow White? Why did Maleficent curse Princess Aurora? What really made the Snow Queen freeze the world?
These stories teach second chances. They teach choice. They teach consequences. Are those bad things to learn?
“Evil isn’t born, dearie, it’s made.”
So if it was made… it can be unmade, right? Redemption.
But then I look at the guys who did what they did to me… and I just don’t fucking care. I don’t care what their fucking story is. I don’t care what happened to them. I don’t care if what they did to me was done to them. I don’t care about the hoops and the jumps and the consequences.
“This isn’t a STORY! This is reality.”
I care about what they took from me. There. I said it. I do. I care about that. I care about what they did to me. I feel the weight of it in every move I made in every part of my day. I care about that. I care about how they stole things from me… time… virtues… bullshit stuff that maybe I shouldn’t even care about. I do. I care about that.
So it doesn’t matter WHY. It matters THAT. That they did that. That they took that. That they stole that. That they did this, and that, and that, and this. That is what matters to me… because that is what they left me with.
They didn’t leave me with redemption so why the fuck should I care about theirs?
Maybe, maybe, maybe. Or, alternatively, actually. ACTUALLY, what they did wasn’t okay no matter what happened to them. ACTUALLY, what they did wasn’t okay no matter what they believe in. ACTUALLY, they did this to me. Not me. I didn’t do this to me. I didn’t at all.
I was such a careful person. Then… I’m not even talking now. THEN. I was such a careful person. I was SO careful. I was so smart. I was so safe. I always had a plan and a back up plan and a plan after that. I was always so careful. And it didn’t matter.
I was such a strong person. My childhood was shit but that shit gave me strength and resilience. I had endurance and perseverance; that is how I lived my teen years which should have been filled with rebellion and idiocy. That is how I lived my life. Peace. Perseverance. Hardwork.
Careful. Cautious. Wise. Smart. Safe.
And none of it mattered. And none of it mattered… because of them.
And that’s not okay.
And now I’m crying. And I don’t cry. And I don’t cry about this… so it is rather uncomfortable for me to be crying, and still continuing to write through the tears.
I just really struggle to illustrate on the page how not okay any of this was. Fucking words. There just aren’t any.
But it wasn’t okay. And the fear I continue to experience because of their actions is not okay. And the soundtracks I continue to hear on repeat in my brain because of what they said to me is not okay.
And it NEVER WILL BE. It will never be okay that this happened. It will never be okay that they did that. It will never be okay that I am here now. That’s just not okay either.
I don’t want anybody to look at me. Ever. And it isn’t because I’m afraid they will turn to stone. It is because I am afraid they will see me.