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.
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.
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.
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