Aug 24 2016


Words, at least for me, don’t have to be said for me to feel the underlying meaning behind them.




Those words were t said to me tonight, but in those messages that’s all I could see. 

______ is tired too and they push every day.

What I hear:

My mother’s voice, with contempt and disdain telling me I wasn’t the only one in the family who had been raped.

And instantly I feel invalidated. I don’t matter.

You misunderstood. You blew it out of proportion. That’s not my fault. No one is attacking you.

Gaslighting sucks. It stays with you long after the relationship is over. Gone. Maybe I do take things more defensively. There’s a reason for that. For so long I didn’t know my own  truth in my own family. I didn’t know what was reality and what I’d made up in my head.
Right now, writing this blog, I feel like no one cares. Like I don’t matter to anyone. Like no one loves me, and no one wants me around. I’m writing this all down to prevent myself from going downstairs, getting a knife, and cutting myself because a blade cutting through my skin is all I can think of. Seeing blood might mean I’m real, and I haven’t imagined my entire being. That this isn’t all a bad dream. You can’t get hurt in a dream.

The only thing keeping me from committing myself is the fact that tomorrow is my first day as a coach. Tomorrow is my first practice, and I don’t want to let those kids down.
If it weren’t for that I’d be in an ambulance on my way to a hospital for a 72 hour hold. Possibly with slash marks on my skin. 

For the first time since 2007 I want to see my own blood. I need to check that I’m real. I need to know I’m alive and that I matter.

I’m taking to someone, who is ensuring I don’t hurt myself. I have to get through this.

Blood still stains when the sheets are washed.

Sex don’t sleep when the lights are off.

Kids are still depressed when you dress them up.

And syrup is still syrup in a sippy cup.

-Melanie Martinez, Sippy Cup.

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