I needed to cry. I keep having these blocks. Like I get stuck. I can't proceed forward, and I can't necessarily look back. I fixate on one moment, shut down, don't feel anything and do not move forward. I don't want to feel and then I detonate. I relapse. I cry, but I don't fully feel it. It's survivable. It's a pain I am familiar with. Then I start again, trying to take on more pain this next time around. How many relapses do I have left in me? I cannot answer that. I just know I am getting closer to the edge. I'm growing familiar with the idea of my death. I roll it around and ask a new question each time. Getting the same answer: I don't want to go on anymore.
Then I get these glimpses of moments. Moments that I am smiling about. I should feel completely happy. Something isn't there. I am prepared to watch it fall. Nothing real feels that swell. Anytime I've let myself go; I've been wrong. Happiness isn't a guarantee. It's an option that I know nothing about.
So they used drugs. They controlled my emotions and latched onto my traumas. They made me their mommy, their daughter, their maid, the step-mother to their children, the wallet, the pocket pussy, the moldable plaything, and their "best friend". They wanted to play on the deepest most dangerous emotion: devotion. An emotion I've come to see as love, just like my daddy trained me.
DAMN. I found that tonight and that is rough to read. Sometimes we forget these moments. That's why my therapist told me to write when she found out I'd stopped. She told me to start writing again and when I started writing again, I finally got out. Our thoughts are poison. Our trauma will kill us if we don't get it out. And if we don't talk to anyone then abusers will abuse us for as long as they can. We get killed or we fade away until we become hollow. We can even end our own lives due to the pain forced upon us by men.
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