there is a storm inside my heart

a silent rumbling that shakes my core

i wonder how much more of this i can take

a heart of glass should contain flowers like dandelions and daisies and all the flowers i have ever loved

but the rage is intense and i feel it in waves and i don’t know whether i’m going to implode or explode, whether i’m going to cry or scream, so i just sit with it. i sit with it silently while it devours me whole and engulfs me with flames i do not know how to fight because all my life i have been drowning

how can i be burning up and drowning at the same time?

if my heart is made of glass, it must be tempered because i have felt it shatter all at once

what is your heart made of?

words i’ve been trying to say

tired of losing friends and losing sleep

tired of erasing all our memories

i want to blame you but it’s mostly me

hurting alone when i just want peace

but i’m in pieces, jesus, i’m on my knees

praying to god but i don’t believe –

maybe salvation just isn’t for me

i use drugs so i can breathe. so i can sleep

it makes me weak

it’s just so easy

you know me, i like sweet dreams

i know it’s been like i’m stuck between

like i can’t really speak. like i can’t really reach

for words but i’m screaming underneath

all these tangled sheets

i feel so incomplete

writing poems i hope you see

but don’t confuse pain with poetry

god isn’t real and nothing really matters

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.

losing my battles

drowning

I’m hurting again. The days are bleeding into one another and I am bleeding internally. I promised myself maybe four years ago now, that I wouldn’t make myself bleed anymore. Not externally, anyway. But there is so much pain in not letting go. In not cutting myself open and bleeding out the hurt and pain inside me.

I am so angry sometimes it scares me. I feel like punching a wall. But mostly I just want someone to punch me. Someone to hurt me so hard I forget what it’s like to be hurting on my own. People understand broken bones but they do not understand broken parts. They do not know what it’s like to be screaming all the time. They do not know what it is like to be woken up from visceral nightmares of hanging bodies and loose limbs in the forest. They do not know that when I wake up, I remember. I remember every single detail of my dream and they do not know that I was there. I know it isn’t real. It’s probably stupid and incredibly trivial. But when I wake up from a nightmare, it sticks with me. I sleep a lot more than I should because my nightmares make me tired.

I want to dream about something so incredibly mundane like waiting in line at an airport or buying mayonnaise at the grocery store. These dreams are getting too much for me to handle and they are spilling into my reality. I get scared walking through the streets. I think someone will stab me or shoot me. I’m scared of geocaching in the woods because, what if I find a hand? What if I find a body? I’m not ready for that. My dreams are a part of who I am. I don’t expose myself to violent movies or scary movies even though they’re my favorite kind to watch. I like feeling unsettled from a movie but I can no longer enjoy them because I don’t want to exacerbate my dreams.

I feel lost and out of control. I hate uncertainty and life is known to be full of them. I’m at a tumultuous time in my life where I can’t find the balance between my mental health, work, and school. I feel like a failure. A disappointment. Why is my bar set so high?

These days, I’m grateful to just be able to get out of bed. To brush my teeth and go outside. Normal things that normal people do. But they’re easy for them. It’s a battle every single day for me to even get up. I can’t find the motivation to do it. My bed is my kidnapper and I have Stockholm Syndrome. I love my bed but I hate it. It gives me comfort but it won’t let me leave. Why won’t it let me leave?

I’m supposed to be stronger, to be better, but I don’t know if it’s working. All the medication, all the therapy — is it even worth it? Am I stronger than I was before? Just because I was raped, found out that I was sexually abused as a child, had suicide become a part of my life? Am I stronger than I was before? Because that’s all that matters, right?

All my traumas are spilling out all at once and I don’t know what to do. Every single day is a struggle. Every single day is a battle. And most days, I am not winning.

My Friend

For seven months, I made excuses for him. He was my friend. That didn’t really happen. He’s a good person. He’s always been there for me. He was my friend.

But friends do not pin you down on the bed. Friends do not hit you when you refuse to comply. They do not muffle your cries with their hands. They do not force your thighs apart to insert their fingers inside you. And they do not rape you.

The moment he forced his dick inside me was the moment I stopped fighting. I didn’t want to get hit again. He was 6”4 and weighed over 200 pounds. I was 5”3 and weighed 97 pounds. I do not remember much about that night. I remember shivering. Was I cold? In shock? Was I nearing a panic attack? I do not know.

I stopped fighting because I was scared. I had already fallen off the bed twice. Or maybe I fell because he hit me. I do not remember. I was screaming, pleading, bleeding inside. Only inside. I did not want to die.

The clearest memory was the immense relief I felt after he left. I was safe again. But I no longer felt like myself. I felt… dirty. Like I had this disgusting poison spreading throughout my body. I just felt wrong. Something was wrong. Inside me. With me. Everything felt wrong.

I took eight showers that night, trying to burn away the rot and shame he left behind. I did not cry. I did not feel. I did not blame him. My skin was scrubbed red and raw from the scalding water but I still felt nothing. I was nothing. Maybe it was my fault.

The next few days I functioned robotically. I didn’t think. I didn’t feel. I didn’t shower. And for a while it was okay. Until I had to shower again.

I finally cried when I saw my naked body in the mirror of my bathroom. Who am I? What happened to me? I tried to repress the memories of that night — whatever little I had left anyway — but I couldn’t. It was seared in my mind. His body crushing me. My stifled cries. His shushes of don’t worry just enjoy it. His hands around my neck.

The next couple of weeks, I felt empty. A light had gone out of me. I had no energy. My eyes were dull. Lifeless. Bright fluorescent lights used to hurt my eyes. Loud traffic noises used to hurt my ears. But none of that mattered anymore. The world was muted and I was just a ghost.

I drifted in and out of sleep during those weeks, clinging to the warmth and safety of my bed. My clean sheets. I cried myself to sleep each night, taking sleeping pills and Xanax so I wouldn’t have to think. I was constantly crying when I was awake. So I self-medicated during the day as well.

Every night, I gripped my blankets and whispered sorry sorry sorry for hurting you, thank you for being here for me, thank you for wiping my tears away, thank you for keeping me safe and warm. Thank you for not touching me without my permission.

The tears in my blanket have seen the world hurt me. They’ve seen me hurt myself. And they have felt me tugging and ripping its seams as if they were my veins.

He claims he had no memory of that night. He still texts me every now and then. And I respond. After all, he is my friend.

Every text from him was a reminder. Shame. Hurt. Guilt. Maybe I deserved this.

After months of therapy and support from my boyfriend, friends, and my sister, I realized that I was not defined by what had happened to me. I was worth more than I knew. And I was loved. Unconditionally. Every single day.

I am not broken or empty or lost.

I love every day and I am loved every day.

And I know now that he is definitely not my friend. He is only my rapist.

naked truths iv

i haven’t been doing well lately

i’m cold all the time

i just want some peace and quiet

the days are bleeding into each other

it is getting harder to breathe

i could drown if i wanted

i starve myself sometimes so i can pretend the emptiness is from my stomach and not from my soul

i am hurting inside

but i’m also numb and… really angry

i am so angry it scares me

i want to destroy ~~things~~ ~~myself thingsmyselfthings mysel~~f

i don’t want to die

there is so much hate in my heart and guilt in my veins

i want someone to punch me really hard in the stomach so i can throw up my feelings my guilt my hurt my emptiness

the world is moving too fast and all i can do is stare blankly

i am screaming inside

i just want to fall asleep but i’m afraid of waking up

i’m angry and scared always so fucking cold

it is 5:19 a.m. and everything is blurry and muted and distant

i think i am lonely

there is an immense sadness inside me that i cannot shake

saying nothing

My head is spinning. I have so many thoughts. So many dots that don’t quite connect. All I’ve ever wanted was a sense of clarity. Why is everything so muddled?

It’s been almost a year since the incident. Almost a year since I’ve posted on this blog. I think about writing, about posting nearly every day but I can never think of anything to say. So here I am, saying nothing.

I’ve had really really good days. Days so good I didn’t want to ruin them by writing thinking feeling all my thoughts turn into words. Does that make sense? I’ve also had some really shitty days. Those are the days I want to write the most. My fingers itch and mind longs to write to post and scream and shout and tell the world that I am not okay. But I also didn’t want to disappoint.

People are so happy for me when I am happy, I cannot bear to tell them that I still get sad sometimes. It’s all so disappointing.

So, I am writing today. It’s not a great day but it’s not a terrible one either. It’s like the weather here in Revere. Foggy. Misty. Cloudy but bright skies. Overcast. The smell after it rains (there was a thunderstorm last night, the lightning was crazy).

I can’t think too much about the words I’m spewing or I’ll get scared and delete it all. So here is me, saying nothing. But also everything. I’m going to stop writing and publish this before I lose my nerve. Thanks for reading.

pointless

I want to be a good writer. I want to tell the truth and be honest with the world. But how can I do that when I’m always lying to myself? I’ve been writing and re-writing this post, but the truth is, I have no idea what I’m going to say. I want to say something but nothing is worth saying. My life is at the point where I’m sort of flatlining. Not in a bad way, but not in a good way either. Too many things have happened between the last post and this one. Even though I want to be as transparent as possible, some things just aren’t meant to be shared with the world. So, I’m sorry. Is withholding truth the same as lying? I should stop writing now. I don’t know what point I’m trying to make.

getting high these days feels easier than ever

help! i’m drowning

my lungs full of liquid guilt –

guilt. guilt. guilt.

why am i so damn guilty?

it’s like my heart doesn’t pump blood, it pumps guilt

i float when i’m high– ohhh i get it now hIGH hahaha–

off-rhythm heart beat

why is my breathing so irregular?

a million shards caught in my throat

i can’t swallow my broken-glass words

it hurts too much

i’m drowning and i’m floating and i’m choking

this is my life

those days are the hardest

tumblr_onwblkhEce1w0l6yoo1_640 Depression is a disease – a sickness that doesn’t go away with just chicken noodle soup. When the world is spinning and I feel like I can’t get back on my feet, I cannot tell people how I feel.

Sadness isn’t a feeling. It is a state. A constant mind-numbing state that drapes over me like a scarf that is too big – engulfing me with useless thoughts from the past. Remnants and echoes of “why are you here” and “you aren’t worth it” hang heavily around my neck, around my head, in my mouth and under my skin. Sadness feels like I am sitting at the bottom of the pool, watching the world go by in slow motion. You know that feeling when you’re underwater? When everything is muted, rippled, and stuck in time? Watching people wonder why I am just sitting and not swimming. Hearing people yell my name in frustration and tell me to “just swim.” How can I just swim when I’m stuck in a ripple?

Those days it’s hard for me to breathe. Those days I want to stay in bed all day and stare blankly at the ceiling in a dimly lit room. Yes, I would rather be wrapped around in blankets, than go out to parties because these blankets did not lie to me. These blankets did not leave me. And these blankets did not touch me without my permission.

The ruffles of these blankets have wiped away my tears, pushed away my fears in the dark, and hugged me until I fell asleep. The tears in the corner of these blankets have seen the world hurt me, have seen me hurt myself, and have felt me tugging and ripping at its seams as if they were my veins.

I want it to stop. I want this feeling of constant nothingness to go away. I want to stop breathing because, with every heave of my chest, I am just breathing in more water.

Those days it is so hard for me to breathe that I just want to stop breathing. I want it all to stop. Those days are the worst. Because no one ever gets it. “You were fine yesterday,” someone will mutter, and “It’s all in your head,” someone will state, with that matter-of-factually obnoxiousness that I have learned to ignore since the first day.

Those days I want to run and run and run away from the noise inside my head, from thoughts that trail after me like my shadow. I don’t want to see. I don’t want to hear. I only want to feel the thumps of my beating heart under my skin reminding me that I am alive.

The only thing depression taught me was this: people will say they love you and they support you and that they understand. They don’t. I realize that when I talk too much about my depression, people get uncomfortable. They try to butter me up with awkward ‘don’t you feel so much better today’s as if they can try to make me whole again. As if I’m something broken they think they can fix. But I’m not.

I am not broken. I am a person. I think, I feel, I am normal. Just a normal girl with perhaps too many feelings, too many thoughts – but a normal girl, nonetheless. Depression is a part of me that I’ve come to accept. Some days it’s easier to manage than others. Some days, my friends act like lifeboats and bring me above the surface. I can see the sun again. I can breathe again. Everything is fine again. But there will always be those dark, high tides that I cannot escape. I will plunge underwater and I will be pulled deep down again. But I will always find my way back to the lifeboats. I will always find my way to the surface.

To everyone: Just because you don’t see it, doesn’t mean it isn’t there. And just because you don’t understand it, doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.

Think before you say something. Your words might be the last thing someone hears.

i am enough (i think)

I don’t like myself.

I never have. I can’t seem to remember a time where I wasn’t full of self-loathing.

I don’t like myself and I don’t know why. Everyone has good qualities and I do recognize my own. I’m a pretty good writer. I’m empathetic and kind and I care about other people. I have awesome friends and an amazing boyfriend – surely, they must love me for a reason. I try my best and I try to do everything with love. But, deep down, I don’t think that I’m worthy of anybody’s love. I don’t know why I think that.

I know that I’m okay and I’m enough and I’m worth it. To other people, that is. I just want to be enough for myself and I don’t know how. I’ve only come to the realization of how deep my self-hatred runs inside me and I don’t understand how I can possibly fix it.

I also know that I’m not a broken toy that needs to be fixed. I’m just a girl, no, a woman, trying her goddamn best. I just hope that it’s enough.

being

“Slow down.”

The Uber driver looked up quizzically but it didn’t matter. Time stood still for me at the back of the car, as I watched the street signs change. The empty Boston roads stirred in me strange feelings that I couldn’t really pinpoint. I felt small. A speck of dust in the universe.

“Are you sure, ma’am?” he asked, bewildered.

“Yes.”

I had never been more sure of anything in my entire life. I wondered if moments like this could ever be my own. Moments where I did nothing and simply allowed time to wash over me. Moments to myself that I didn’t have to share or explain to anyone.

I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to do anything, I just wanted to be.

Life is a series of linear events that eventually leads everyone to the same outcome: death. It is inevitable. I don’t know why I spend so much time worrying about school, grades, and what other people think of me, when in the end, it is all the same.

Yes, I should strive to be the best version of myself, but isn’t it kind of pointless? Life is a game I’m not supposed to win. No one is supposed to win. We’re all here to play, aren’t we?

Like some wise person said: it is not the destination, but the journey. We need to stop thinking about the future and what could be, and just be.

Slow down, and think for a second; aren’t you where you’re supposed to be?

infinite ocean-pool

I’m floating. I’m lying on my back and staring up – basking underneath the sun’s rays. I am floating on an infinite ocean-pool alone. Floating, for the most part, sounds like something good, right? A good floaty feeling, perhaps. But this is not the case. Floating in water- body about one-third below the surface, bobbling and balancing – does not feel good. There is no support, and although my heart is reaching toward the surface, it is not getting anywhere. It will only ever be just at the surface of the water.

This strange trickly sense of floating reminds me of feeling numb. But, with a twist. Ears below water, and eyes on the clouds, I am both above and below at the same time. I’m here in the present, but I’m also not. The water beneath me sets everything in slow motion and the air above me reminds me that time is passing normally.

How do I push myself up from the water to get my entire body up to the surface? There’s nowhere to go, and I don’t want to use all my energy. I’m already using a lot of energy trying to balance myself between underwater and over-water.

So I plug my nose and close my eyes. I let myself sink. I drown.

iii. a letter to my future self

Hello,

Everything is sort of a shitstorm right now. I wish I had your sage advice to get me through this rough “patch” that I’ve been going through. In quotation marks because it isn’t just a patch, or a phase, it’s an era. Dramatic, I know, but I am you and you are dramatic. Anyway, I hope your days are full of sunshine and love and I hope that you get to go to bed feeling safe in someone’s arms. Or by yourself. It doesn’t really matter you’re the OG. You’re number one. You don’t need anyone to validate you. Repeat it after me. I don’t need anyone to validate me. I hope you love yourself like you love others. Unconditionally, infinitely.

If you aren’t there yet, that’s okay too. These things take time, trust me, I know. And I’m also you, so you’ve gotta trust me. I know how hard it is for you to love yourself. How hard it is when your invasive thoughts intrude in your daily life. Please just try to ignore those thoughts and remember, those thoughts do not make you who you are. Your love and kindness is what makes you who you are. I hope you know that.

I guess I’m writing all of this because I want someone to tell me these things. But that’s okay, I’ll just tell it to myself. Afterall, I don’t need anyone to validate me.

I’ve been trying most of my life to love myself and it’s still a work in progress. The important thing, though, is that I am still trying. So damn hard. That’s got to count for something, right?

Anyway, Dnee from the future, drink a lot of water, eat lots of healthy food because you’ve only got one body and one life. Take care of it. Live your best life, girl. You deserve it.

Love,

20 year old Dnee

4/28/19

liquid guilt

I’m supposed to be reading psychology articles for my discussion. I talk about that a lot. Not my social psychology class, but what I’m “supposed” to be doing. I say that so many times in my blog, in a day, in general.

When I say I’m “not supposed to” drop classes or not write or have too much fun, Joe always tells me that there is no “supposed to.” And he’s right. I guess it’s just normal (where I’m from, anyway), for kids to go to school, then college for four years, then grad school. But here I am, abroad. Living with my boyfriend, with seven animals in our house, barely passing my one class… and maybe graduating in four years. Or four and a half.

Most of my day, if I’m not consumed by anxiety, I feel a guilt that runs so deep inside me I feel like I want to throw up. I’m in the states because I’m in college. But I’m barely a college student at all. I’m struggling so much but I can’t return to Bangkok because I won’t be able to get the mental health resources that I need.

I’m not doing what I’m “supposed” to do. But am I really supposed to be doing? Studying? Taking care of my mental health? Getting good grades? Pleasing my boyfriend? Getting an internship? Going out with my friends? What am I supposed to do? I wish there were a set structure that I can follow. But all I have are splattered feelings everywhere – messy, inconvenient.

I have a guilt that runs so deep in my veins it has become a part of me. I’m not sure how to get rid of it. But you know what the most fucked up part is?

I’m not sure I really want to.