Tag: truth

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.

today and forever

i’m always so angry at the world

what’s the point of all this pain?

or i’m numb and i don’t care because what is the point?

if tomorrow never came why would it matter

if i already didn’t feel anything at all

when we’re together everything feels right and

the world doesn’t seem as scary as it used to be

it feels like maybe life isn’t so bad because people like you exist and there is hope in the world after all

i’m not angry at the world, i’m grateful to be alive

because if i weren’t, i wouldn’t have met you

i’m no longer numb or cold

there is a light inside me that wants to fight

and i can feel my heart beat so fast all the time

i have never felt more alive

i don’t know what the future holds but i know that i never want to stop feeling this way

the more i know you, the harder i fall

you are so easy to love

your heart is so big and so strong

you hurt but you are still kind

you care about people

and you are kind to them even though they haven’t always been kind to you

they say when a writer falls in love with you, you live forever in their words

i never want this to end

and i am afraid of tomorrow

so there is no tomorrow

only today and forever

and for today and forever

we are alive

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.

those days are the hardest

tumblr_onwblkhEce1w0l6yoo1_640Depression 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.

to my 12-year-old self, please stop crying

tumblr_o43352OCkH1s3jg9qo1_1280Dear me,

I’m sorry you feel so scared. I want to tell you that it gets better – that with each passing second, your heaving chest will feel lighter and the voices around you softer. But it doesn’t get better. Not really.

Remember when you thought it was the end of the world when they chopped down your favorite tree in the park? You felt like you lost yourself and that you won’t ever feel complete again. It’s kind of like that. A part of yourself will always be missing, and you’ll always wonder what you did wrong. You will wonder why men and women try so hard to impress each other only to spend the entire night staring at a lit up box, concentrating on virtual people that aren’t in front of them. You’ll wonder why girls sprint to the bathroom after dinner only to stick their fingers down their throats. You’ll wonder why your parents argue in the middle of the night.

And then you’ll stop wondering. You’ll become one of them.

Nameless, faceless, lost. Your eyes will sink lower and lower into your skin, and they will lose the hope and curiosity they once held. You will scream and cry and question why you are never enough. You will drown over and over again, but no one will notice even though the walls are so thin. And you’ll worry. You’ll worry about the way you look. Society has ingrained into you that pretty girls are skinny girls, pretty girls are perfect girls with perfect teeth and long hair. You will spend many more years worrying about the way you look and questioning why you don’t look like girls in magazines and movies.

Your mom will tell you to stop eating. You will look down at your plate, trying to choke down a mouthful of tasteless leaves while you choke back tears. You will spend many hours sitting on the bathroom floor, your head resting against the door, wishing you were as cold as the tiles beneath your feet. You will hurt, and you will cry, and you will wish you didn’t wake up. There will be scratches on the pale walls made by metallic rulers. Names of crushes, dates of first kisses. Tally marks of days spent alone and nights spent lonely. You will spend time on the corner of your bed – curled up and alone, staring at the artificial fluorescent glow, wondering when it would all get better. There will be late night phone calls and tears that ended up with scars not on the walls.

But you will learn, and you will cope.

You will learn to drown out the noise, the endless whisperings and reminders of “you are a disappointment” and “no one loves you.” It will be difficult, but you will try. If I could give you advice, this would be it: Stop looking at your feet. The world is much more beautiful when you actually look up and notice the things around you – the skies, stars, people. See those old books and novels that line your shelves?

Read them. Live a thousand lives among warriors and princesses and dare to dream as far as they do. Stop focusing on what other people think of you – they don’t matter. Find a group of friends who will not judge you and who will love you for who you are. Trust in them and trust in yourself. But most importantly, love yourself. I know it’s difficult- I’m still struggling with it today, and it will still be a struggle in the future. Keep trying. Accept the love you receive, and give as much love back as you can. You are worth it.

Love,

20-Year-Old Me

4/22

I couldn’t make myself get up today.

Or yesterday, or the day before. Even on my birthday (420 btw.)

But after nearly two hours of rolling around, trying to make myself comfortable, I dragged myself out of bed with only one thing on my mind: coffee.

So, here I am, at Newton Corner’s Starbucks, wishing that I’d brought my charger. Oh well. I haven’t written in a while so I thought I’d just sit down and let out whatever comes to mind. I’m not going to edit this. Because I want to come back to this post one day and read only honest things.

Everyone expects me to get better. I expect myself to get better. It’s just happening so slowly. I do feel different. I no longer wake up disappointed that I’m still breathing. I’d say that’s progress!

I guess I’m kind of disappointed that the process of healing is going slower than I thought it would. I don’t really know what to do.

It draws me in every morning. My bed. Which, sounds ridiculous, I know. But it’s true. I feel as if I am made out of white bedsheets, tucked in neatly under the mattress. I try to fight the urge to sink into the bed. Because once I stop fighting, it pulls me under and I drown. I drown all day and all night, trying to escape. But I just can’t.

There aren’t enough metaphors in the world to describe what depression feels like. It just feels awful. And I feel awful that I’m always writing about depression. But that’s the thing, you see. Depression takes over your life. You can’t escape it.

Sometimes, I forget that I’m depressed. When I’m watching a really funny tv show, laughing really hard with my friends, or when I’m high. But it always comes back. No matter how much I distract myself, at the end of the day, when I go to bed – it is still there.

I’ve had two coffees now, both tall, iced caramel macchiatos with extra shots of espresso. Joe’s here now. He rode the bus from school to here. Thank god for him. I had my charger this whole time and there was an outlet directly below my seat this WHOLE TIME!! (He pointed that out to me).

He’s bullet journaling right now (which has really helped me), but I forgot mine at home.

The other day, Joe and I were carrying boxes down to our storage unit in the basement. As he was opening the door, the boxes wobbled and I let out this mix of a yelp-scream because I didn’t want the box to fall. Joe said something along the lines of, “it’s okay if it falls, they’re just boxes of clothes. If it falls, we’ll just pick it up.” THIS MADE SO MUCH SENSE. It just didn’t occur to me at the time that this was actually no big deal at all.

So, why did my heart race so fast when I thought the box was about to fall? Anxiety, I guess. My to-be advisor said that I liked to be in control, for things to be exactly how I want them. And that couldn’t be more true.

I like being in control. No, I LOVE it. I never realized it could become a problem. I like knowing that my pens are aligned right next to my desk lamp. I like making sure that the bedsheets are tucked in and the pillows over the sheets. I like making sure that my titles are exactly one-third the space of my bullet journal. It’s always been this way.

I used to brush my hair 100 times. Fifty times on each side of my head. I was 10. I wanted to be pretty, I wanted to look like an adult. So, I had a set routine (like adults do, right?). I had to do homework right after school. I had to shower RIGHT BEFORE going to bed. And I always applied lotion on my skin so I would always be soft. I didn’t want to age badly. Whatever that means.

Anyway, as an adult, I don’t have a routine. I definitely do not put on lotion or brush my hair (Joe brushes my hair for me, bless him.) And I definitely do not do homework. I’ve concluded that the adult world is a mess that my 10 year old self did not see. But I also learned that it is okay. Because messes can always be cleaned up.

not-nothing

I woke up at 8:30 when Joe left for class. I fell asleep right after he left. I’ve just been so tired lately. My alarm went off at 9. I snoozed it. When it rang again, I turned it off. I didn’t want to go to class. I should’ve just gone back to sleep. But I couldn’t. I stared at the ceiling for an hour. There are four small bumps near the light. The paint is a little faded in the corner. There’s a spot that looks like a small turd. I don’t know why I had to look up to describe the ceiling. I’ve memorized it by now. Joe has even caught me doing it a couple of times.

“What are you doing?” he’d ask.

“Nothing,” I’d respond.

Which wasn’t a lie. I was doing nothing. But it was also not nothing. I can’t really explain it. This not-nothing thing that I do all the time is kind of the only thing that I can do. I have a biology exam coming up (I skipped the lecture today), and two three assignments due for my journalism class. Every time I try to study or do research for my assignment, I’m filled with all this dread. I feel like something bad is going to happen. Which doesn’t make sense but I promise I’m trying my best to explain. 

These past two months have been difficult. I never quite understood when people say they’ve reached their “breaking point” until now. I am cracking. With every person that I talk to, every assignment I submit, every distraction that I give myself – I am stretching stretching stretching parts of me and giving everyone pieces of me and I don’t know if I can get them back. Not-nothing is how I deal with the dread. Since I don’t know what will happen if I keep pushing myself, I might as well prepare for the end. Does that make sense? Probably not.

It doesn’t matter. I don’t have any more of me I can give. At least when I’m lying in bed and doing not-nothing, I can imagine the ground swallowing me whole. I can imagine me folding into myself until there is nothing left. It’s quite therapeutic, really. If I cannot control how much of me I’ve lost, perhaps I can control how I disappear.

I’m supposed to get better. I think. That’s what my psychiatrist said anyway. And in some ways I am. Just not enough. I feel awful. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. My thoughts are so loud. And I don’t know how many more not-nothings I can go through.

I know, I know that I am not alone. And I am so grateful but I feel like such a big disappointment. I don’t want to bring everyone down with all my emotional crap, you know?

Joe – I’m sorry for all the late nights. For always crying at something stupid and for always being an emotional mess. Thank you for holding me and loving me. I love you more than words can ever say.

Dena – I’m sorry I haven’t been a better friend. Thank you for always knowing what to say. Thank you for being my home in this strange, new world. I think you fixed me.

For the longest time, I thought that I needed a break from the world. That it was too loud. Too jarring. But I realize now that it isn’t the world that’s too loud. It’s me. And I need it to all stop.

I need me to stop.

I’m not really in the mood for writing but I figured if I started, things would just get flowing. I had an exam today that I thought I was unprepared for but it turned out better than I thought, so that’s good. I still have a bunch of work piling up and I’m not so sure what to do. I want to take a break from school and from life but it seems like I’m always taking a break even though I don’t feel like I am. Joe says it helps to make to-do lists. He made me a pretty pink smoothie today. I’ve been on my new medication for about a week now and I do think it’s helping but I still need more time to adjust. As I was studying yesterday, I realized that, in the grand scheme of things, this moment is very small and I probably won’t even remember it. And I should focus on the important things that make me happy. Sometimes I get sidetracked. Life just gets in the way. I took two naps today and I’m still tired. Every morning when I wake up, the only thing that gets me through the day is the thought of coming back home to sleep. I want to feel inspired again but I don’t know how. At least that’s a step towards somewhere, right? I need affirmation that everything is going to be okay because I don’t know if it is. I’ve lost a lot of myself and I don’t know how to get her back. I just don’t know anything anymore.

31 October​​ 2018

I don’t feel so bad today. I think.

I woke up at 9:30 a.m. and decided not to go to my bio lecture because I think that it is a waste of my time. I hate biology.

I ate cheerios and immediately felt guilty afterward.

I submitted my essay to the very nice professor who granted me an extension (I told him about my crippling depression). Which made me realize that I should probably be asking for more help.

I told Her Campus about my crippling depression too (ironic because I’m working on the mental health campaign). So they’re giving me time off.

I finally have an appointment tomorrow with BU’s student health services so I guess I’ll finally have help (??).

I keep having nightmares that leave me panic-stricken in the middle of the night. I always feel guilty for waking Joe up but it is so hard for me to fall back asleep. His breathing helps steady mine.

I can’t remember the last time I called my dad and I always feel guilty thinking about it. I can’t call him yet – he’ll ask me how things are and I can never lie to him. But I can’t tell him how much I’m struggling because I need to prove to him that I can be an independent adult.

I have an article I’m supposed to write for my journalism class that’s due in a couple of days. I like this class a lot. And my professor is incredibly inspiring. But I’m scared of all the deadlines I will miss because of my mental health. I haven’t missed any yet because I’m really pushing myself.

This post sucks but it made me feel a little bit better so I guess that’s okay. I still feel incredibly lost but I’m trying.

-D

 

*I realized after I posted this that today was Halloween. So, Happy Halloween! It’s kinda sad that I forgot actually, it’s one of my favorite holidays.

the truth

I haven’t been feeling so great lately.

Mental health has always been something that I’ve talked about as a thing of the past. But it isn’t. Not at all. I’ve had my fair share of relapses, but every time I sink a little deeper, I know that I can make my way up. I’m not so sure this time.

I don’t know what’s happening. I feel like I am trying so hard to be okay because I know it isn’t easy for the people around me. And it sure as hell isn’t easy for me either. All the days have blended in with one another and I feel as if I am losing myself. All I want to do is stay in bed and sleep forever. But I know that I can’t. I know that I have responsibilities. I’m supposed to go to college and get straight A’s. Be a good role model for my younger sisters. My parents have invested in me. My family looks up to me. I want to give up. But I can’t.

At the same time, I don’t want to give up. I’m grateful for my life. It’s been a good one. To Nina, Sara, Joe, and Dena: thank you for always supporting me and taking care of me. I hope I haven’t taken anything for granted. I love all of you so much. But I’m not so sure that I can be fixed. I’m not so sure I even have the energy to want to be fixed. I just don’t know anything anymore.

How do you tell people who love you that you can’t do this anymore? That you are just so so tired? That you just want to sink deeper and deeper into yourself until you disappear? That you just. want. to. sleep.

You can’t.

The point of this blog is for me to get my feelings out and to tell the truth. For the longest time, I thought that I always had to write something happy – people love reading happy stories, right? Or if I wrote something sad, it would have to be about how “things are so much better now” or how I learned so much or how I suddenly discovered myself.

But that is not what this post is. I haven’t reached any sort of resolution or conclusion. I’m more lost than I have ever been before. I need help and I don’t know how to get it. I’m tired of trying.

a letter to my madness

Dear Madness,

sad rain girl

The days keep getting harder and harder. I really wish we weren’t this sad. I know that we’re in this together and that we should work together to make things right. But you make it so damn hard for me to want to help when all you do is fuck everything up. I don’t know what to say to you because I’ve tried everything and nothing seems to work. Nothing seems to be enough. I’m tired. Please stop making me go through this again. Everything hurts and this is unfair. I want to enjoy life. I want to wake up early and drink orange juice and pet my kittens and go to bed without waking up and crying in the middle of the night. I’ve accepted you, I’ve reasoned with you, I’ve made you almost disappear a couple of times. Don’t I get points for that? I have taken you home with me and introduced you to my family. They’ve accepted you too. Why isn’t that enough for you? Why do you keep coming back to haunt me? You’ve been my shadow for a long long time now. I’ve gotten too used to you. Please leave me alone.

— Spilled

ii. a letter to my future self

tumblr_oza4b92CHB1wc2gv3o1_1280Hi readers! Since most of you were delighted by my previous “letter to my future self,” I thought why not post another one? This post actually predates the last one (I know I know I know I know, I suck.) But this one was salvaged from my old bedroom in Bangkok, and I believe it was written during the spring break of my senior year in high school.

Also, I’ll have you know that I am thoroughly embarrassed by these posts. Writing used to be something that helped me express myself in a way that I wanted people to see me, i.e. mysterious, cool. Alas my writing has its limitations and I can only be fake cool for so long. Yes, I surrender to the cool gods. You guys win. Revel in it.

Anyway, welcome to my mind. It’s a fun place.

10 March 2017

Dear me,

How are you? I hope people are still asking you that. You’re probably in college and you’re back for break…? As of now, I don’t know where I want to go yet, but no matter where you chose, it was a good choice. If not, nothing’s permanent! Hey, transferring is always an option. I hope that you are happy and you are safe. Knowing you (AKA myself), I know that you are unafraid to throw yourself out there to experience all the possibilities of life. But please be careful because there are people out there who love you. Dad, mom, Nina, Sara – even little grandma. Are you still writing? I sure hope you are because words are so so powerful (but you know that). Please don’t forget to push a little harder. Things sometimes don’t work out, but you KNOW that you can do this. I hope that you are where you want to be.

Remember: if you don’t like something, change it. And if you can’t change it, accept it. Be honest. Especially to yourself. All wounds heal. And you’re never ever alone. I hope you go home each night to a warm bed and maybe someone’s arms – and safe. You are important. And you are loved. Take care of yourself.

Love,

Me at 17 xx

 

Post-letter thoughts (present day)

Should I respond to these letters? I feel rude. Even if it is to myself. Is this stupid? Am I crazy? Please let me know if I should respond to my past self. Thanks for reading!

a conversation

him: take off your shirt

me: I, um, I don’t think–

him: c’mon baby, I know you want to feel good

me: I don’t know if I–

him: I’ll take it off for you

I have lost so much of myself in past relationships

so many countless hours of calls that I didn’t want to answer

endless murmurs of no’s that end up becoming maybes and then yeses

it wasn’t his fault that I didn’t want to do anything

wasn’t his fault that I was incapable of saying no

that I couldn’t say no

because I wanted it to be good

I wanted to be good

I still get flashbacks from times I would rather not remember

I still ask myself every day why I did those things

why I said those things when I wanted to cry

why I let him take off my shirt and unhook my bra

why I said it was okay, keep going, it’s fine, it doesn’t hurt

but it wasn’t okay, I wanted to stop, and it did hurt

did I really want to be loved that badly?

to have ruined all the parts with dignity left in me?

was I incapable of loving myself?

even now, I still struggle to say no when I don’t want to do something

and I’m slowly learning that saying no doesn’t make me weak

it doesn’t make me any less of a person

saying no makes me strong

because it means that I am choosing myself

I am choosing to love myself