I never believed that God, destiny, or whatever [insert higher power] existed. Because if everyone’s lives were already predetermined, nothing we do matters. And if something like that did exist, why is there still so much hurt and suffering in the world?
I used to fall asleep with hate in my heart and blood on my wrists. Did I deserve that when I was 14? 15? 16-17-1819202122? Maybe. I was the one hurting myself. But what about all the times others hurt me? Did I deserve all of that? Did I deserve to eat lunch alone in the middle school bathroom stall because I didn’t feel safe anywhere else? Did I deserve to have my safe place taken from me? When girls tried to climb the stalls to take pictures of me? Or crawled under the gaps between the stalls and floor?
I thought I knew what being violated felt like. I got too familiar with feeling empty and broken. I was comfortable in my numbness, and I let the emptiness sit in my chest. It was easy to let boys girls bitches friends dad mom people take pieces of me because they were already broken.
My rapist took a different piece of me the night he fucked me against my will.
Did I deserve to be touched without my permission? To be choked and hit and beaten as if I was not 97 pounds and him, over 200? To have bruises in places that should not have been touched?
I did not know I could feel emptier than I already was. The only thing I truly felt was the hate I had for myself. I felt hate in my blood in every fucking heartbeat pumping hate running through my veins as if I weren’t already drowning with lungs full of liquid guilt, as if I needed more reasons to kill myself slit my wrists and bleed out all the hope hurt just to feel anything other than this.
I learned that the world moves forward even if I don’t. Life goes on. Pain and suffering go on and on and on and on.
It still hurts when I think about what he did to me because he was my friend because I trusted him because I didn’t deserve what happened or maybe I still blame myself for being weak stupid trusting naive stupid stupid stupid and these days I think about that night more and more frequently, not of my own volition though I am just so triggered because I am back in Bangkok again and it still hurts because he was my father and I loved him and I trusted him to protect me from people like my rapist and I didn’t expect I didn’t think how could I know at the age of 11 that he was the one I needed to be protected from? How could I know?
God can’t be real. Fate. Destiny. All of that cannot be real. So while the concept of a higher power comforts many and lets them believe that everything will be okay in the end, I choose not to cannot believe in it.
I cannot believe life is predetermined because I cannot accept that this – my life my soul my brokenness my loneliness and hurt and anger-pain-emptiness-numbness unworthiness hatred guilt – is how I am supposed to feel. Maybe for now, but not forever.
I’d rather be dead than feel this for the rest of my life.
I don’t want to hurt – like this – anymore.
I don’t know how much more I can take.
I’m trying my best but it is getting harder and harder to breathe. I am trying to heal in the environment that hurt me. I don’t think it’s working I need help I’m so trapped get me out of here I can’t sleep I don’t feel safe here this isn’t home I don’t think I can do this anymore I’m fucking breaking I am hiding the truth in my art because I am scared of him still and if this is art then it’s all up to interpretation, isn’t it? I speak in metaphors and hide between the lines. If you can read between them you can’t because I can’t either I am just scared.
Maybe I should just pray about it.
liquid guilt 