Broken Toy

     Chapter 31 in The Fade

        This one gets to me a lot. One of my exes made me feel like all I was good for was being his plaything. That I was nothing more than a toy to him. 

        Please do not let anyone treat you like that. 

        This somewhat involves two different people I had in my life. One who used me and another... Who also used me. Some in ways that were similar and some that were different. But at the end of the day... I just felt like a broken toy. 

        I do not feel good enough to be loved. I say that a lot. You know how people have said that it is difficult to believe someone when they say you look beautiful because you have been called ugly your entire life. Well I have been called ugly, worthless... Not good enough. A fool. The list could go on and on and on... But I really don't want to fall back down that hole.

        No one wants a broken toy. No one wants to deal with the damage. No one wants to fix the shattered pieces. No one wants to hold the bruised. 

        But what if... What if someone did?

        Would they hold the hand of one who is trying to pull themselves back together. Would they cement the cracks and heal the wounds?

        I don't want to be seen as a broken toy anymore. I don't want to be used. I want to be loved. I want to love. I want to care for someone and for them to care for me too.

        But could someone love a broken thing like me?

Two Oceans

     Chapter 42 in The Fade

        This one was written after a date. He was interesting, and very cute. He was kind, and well mannered. I enjoyed our talk, but I was nervous and shy. My anxiety took over a lot. I felt like I did not deserve to be in his presence. 

        His eyes were so captivating and his voice was enticing. I could have listened to it forever. 

        It was another moment in my life that was wonderful, and then disappeared. I am assuming it was my fault... I assume that a lot of things that have happened are my fault.

        One of my exes said to me that no one will ever love me until I love myself. I feel like that has haunted me ever since... Because no matter how hard I try... No one stays. And it makes me think that they don't stay because I do not love myself. I don't give myself a lot of love. I would rather give love. I would rather give every ounce of love that I have to those around me. Because everyone deserves love. But I feel like I don't. 

        I don't know how to explain it... Or if I am explaining it in a way that anyone can understand it. 

        I don't give myself love because I pour it out to those I love. Self love does not come first for me. Or really ever.

        Maybe that is why I am used up for what I give. I give and give, but I do not receive. At least not from those that I have fallen for. Those that I have chosen to call sisters have given me love that I am missing... But there is a love that they cannot give. 

        I miss having someone. I miss being someone to someone. If that makes sense. I miss laying in bed with someone and just talking about anything and nothing. I miss cuddling. I miss saying I love you. 

    

        I hope to have that again one day.

Love

     Chapter 48 in The Fade

        I feel like love is many things. I don't think that it is something that can be contained. I don't think that it can be controlled. I think it is wild, and it is fierce. I believe it is everywhere and is in everything. 

        It kind of sums up how I feel about it. It is a gift and a curse. It holds you hostage in a tight grip. It is kind, but it is also cruel. When you love someone and they do not love you back. It brings pleasure, but also heartache. I believe it is craved, but it is also hated. 

        Love is torture. 

        I think love is all around. And now I have the song that Bill sings in the movie Love Actually. "I feel it in my fingers. I feel it in my toes. Love is all around me." Please... If you have not watched it. Please for the love, haha, of all that is good... Please watch it. It is one of my personal favorites. 

        Come to think of it... I have a lot of favorite things. I have a lot of favorite movies, bands, shows... Lots of things.

        Would you care to share some of yours? 

Don't Make Me Cry

        Chapter 54 in The Fade

        That was something that was said to me by a guy I was attracted to. I feel like it is pretty open to what I wanted to get out. I wish I asked him not to make me cry. Maybe it would have changed something.

        No... It wouldn't have changed anything. 

        I think that it was a moment in my life that had to happen because it was the fire that lit the fuse inside of me. It was a rocket that shot out of me and had me racing to pick up my pen. I wrote so much because of this man that I felt something for.

        A moment that was seared into my flesh that I could not ignore. 

        

        We shared some things, and did some things... I am not perfect in any sense. Guilty of a lot.    

        Part of me wishes to go back and never meet him, but I can't. Because I wouldn't have been able to accomplish the things I have.

        So I kind of want to say thank you.

        Thank you Onyx Eyes for doing what you did. Thank you for making me feel something again. Thank you for breathing life into me. Thank you for ghosting me. Thank you for showing me what you did. Thank you for the memories. Thank you for the inspiration. Thank you for being a part of my life for a little while. Thank you for letting me be a part of yours. Thank you for the coffee. Thank you for the kisses. Thank you for letting me feel like someone could like me. Thank you for getting me to rip out my heart and slam it onto the pages I've written. I cannot forget you, but thank you for forgetting me. 

Devil's Den

        This one is chapter 55 in The Fade. 

        This one was a little difficult to write. I felt like I was trapped in an endless cycle of mental abuse. All of the pain that I thought I grew past had risen to the surface and used against me. I know I am not the prettiest girl out there, and that I am not the most intelligent. But I do try to be the best that I can be. Although... For some... It was never enough.

        I have never felt good enough, and was told that I would never be as good as the person before me. I felt useless. That I was only kept around as a toy to be used when needed. I didn't feel loved.

        Truth is... At the time... I felt like love did not exist. I was just a rag doll the was tossed into the waste bin when he was finished with me. And I was only taken out when needed. 

        I was reminded of every bad thing that I did. I was told that I was not pretty. I am not beautiful. I am unlovable. I do not deserve love because I do not love myself. So the demons that I though I silenced... The ones I thought I conquered and destroyed. He brought them back to the surface. 

        I felt like I was drowning. I felt like I was just barely reaching the waters surface, but I could not reach it. I could not break it. There was no air for me to breathe in. My chest was tight, and my anxiety festered. My depression had full reign over me. 

        He came to me. Showing love and kindness. All of the things that one could only dream of having with another. And as the years passed... His disguise started to shatter before my eyes. And soon the devils true form appeared before me. But he was my devil. And I loved him with everything that I had. Wishing that he loved me in return and bring back the angel I fell for. But that was not meant to be. And only brought forth more suffering. 

        Then he met another... And there was no room in his heart for a worthless being like me. 

        I used to self harmed. And then... I started again. I know it does not help. I know it is not something anyone should do. It is not something I like talking about, and it is something that is difficult to say. But I feel like I should. I don't know why, but a tug at my heart tells me to share.

        Please know that you are not alone. I know it feels like it, and I know that it is hard. I know a lot of people say "You're not alone" but you still feel like you are alone. They say they understand, and maybe they do... But you don't believe that they do because they are not living your life. They do not go through the ocean currants that you are swooped in. The tidal waves that crash into repeatedly... They do not know it. They do not feel it because they have their own hurricanes whirling through them. And you don't want to say anything because you do not want to burden them with more problems. So when I say I understand... I understand that it is difficult... I understand that it is hard. I know that it hurts. 

        I feel like I should share this. 

        There is a poem written by Nayo Jones titled Healing. That, I feel, describes me well. Below I have written what she wrote. And the link to the video if you wish to hear it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8YzIGoonIrE&t=66s

I had a therapist tell me once, it was ironic how much love I gave out, 'cause I didn't give much to myself.
She laughed, like self-love was a sick joke.
I chuckled, then cried at home.
I had someone tell me once, I could not love anyone else until I learn to love myself.
This time, I got to laugh.
This time, the sick joke was mine, was me.
Might as well wait forever.
I remember hating myself at the age of seven, journals filled to the brim with criticisms.

By eight, I had enough pages to stitch them into wings to fly close enough to the sun, to see my tears turn to steam, felt the wax burn on my shoulders and mold into thick skin.
I was nine when I wanted to die.
Thirteen when I found a solution, figured if I could cut my legs enough gravity would let me go.
When it didn't, I tied a pillowcase around my neck, twisting like the rope swings I knew so well from childhood, heard my heartbeat pound in my ears like a warning drum, then fade.
I'd almost convinced myself I'd done it.
When I started writing, I smeared my blood on every page to remind myself that everything beautiful has a consequence.
I'd hoped to stall the clotting long enough to give myself to the craft and let myself go.
I have died so many times.
So when I told you that loving you almost makes life worth it, I was not joking.
When I tell you that loving you almost makes me forget how much I hate myself, it is not poetry.
Loving you is taking all of the love I could never give myself and putting it to good use.
It is reminding myself that if someone can love a dying thing this way, can hold the Lazarus of my body and give thanks for the way it holds back.
If someone can kiss the scars, administer the pills, absorb the bad days and wake up smiling next to me, then I can try to breathe again.
Because self-love does not always come first.
Or second.
Or even ever.
But your love be the guardrail on the ledge, be the drawers that hide all the sharp things,
Be the body that carries my collapsed frame into bed, be the flowers you bought,
Because even though they are dying too, they still dance.
Love will not heal me, will not wipe my slate of a body clean - I will always be a woman of wounds, of rope-mark neck and melted skin.
Love will not heal me, but it will hold my hand if I ever heal myself, and maybe teach me a joke that I can stay alive long enough to laugh at.
I love you, enough to want to love myself too.