This is is an entry that was originally written in my pen/paper journal...I hope you enjoy it...it takes a lot to share pieces of my journal...so, yeah.
For the first time for 6 years, I feel Ok. It still feels odd being in the same house as someone who almost killed me all those years ago, but it doesn't hurt me anymore. I don't hate him, I don't love him...It's a neutral feeling that doesn't emit my emotion. Sociopathic almost. And you know what's most bizarre about it? I'm happy. Comfortable. Like, I can freely write, almost as if a decade of leaves have been raked out of my throat. Leaves that look harmless and dry, but underneath that top layer they're wet and slimy. White mold snakes from one leaf to the next. They stick together like floppy pages in decomposing book. A book that holds ages of stories like the ones I have been writing for my lifetime. But yet, as I keep pulling them out of my throat, the earth pukes more into it like it's disposing of all it's rot, begging me to get rid of it, so I can breathe again and spill stories and words of life across the pages of this journal. So many years of living in disaster have made mountains in my throat, blockading any vocal activity.
But now, for the first time in 6 years, I'm actually writing what comes to my lips. And as my lips part, to spew my words, the cold January rain falls onto them and lets them be moistened. Dry cracked lips that open and close allowing voice to emerge...that's what I feel like today. All this time, I took breaths, hoping some noise would escape...but all that came out a hoarse whisper. But now, i rumble comes from within and noise explodes from me.
"I am me and these are my words." It continues. "Hear my words." Today was the day I felt alive.
Does any of this make sense? I'm rambling. Rambling is what I am good at. That and running away. I'm good at swallowing more leaves and running away from what I don't understand. Like CJ and Mom. I ran away at the first sign of a failing family. failed family number 3. Krystle told me the other night that the family we had was a dream family. Maybe it was just a dream...All make believe. Something I conjured up to make the useless life I was living seem real. Was CJ and the boys a figment of my overactive imagination or was it all a reality? Was I really part of something wonderful or was it all a facade? Kind of like playing charades...or hide or go seek...I'll hide my eyes and go seek a life I really want.
You must walk alone to find your soul. Have I walked alone long enough to have found my soul? How much longer must I walk to realize that my soul is a part of me that died when CJ left? How much longer can I lie to myself? I'm in a never-ending movie and I despise my character. A movie that I can play and watch as if I'm in it, but watching it and be a critic about my life. My so-called life. Barbed wire and rose petals.
Where will I be in 5 years? Better yet, where does my life lead me this time next year? I just want happiness. Where is the perfect family I crave? Where is my happily ever after?
What if it never comes??
For the first time for 6 years, I feel Ok. It still feels odd being in the same house as someone who almost killed me all those years ago, but it doesn't hurt me anymore. I don't hate him, I don't love him...It's a neutral feeling that doesn't emit my emotion. Sociopathic almost. And you know what's most bizarre about it? I'm happy. Comfortable. Like, I can freely write, almost as if a decade of leaves have been raked out of my throat. Leaves that look harmless and dry, but underneath that top layer they're wet and slimy. White mold snakes from one leaf to the next. They stick together like floppy pages in decomposing book. A book that holds ages of stories like the ones I have been writing for my lifetime. But yet, as I keep pulling them out of my throat, the earth pukes more into it like it's disposing of all it's rot, begging me to get rid of it, so I can breathe again and spill stories and words of life across the pages of this journal. So many years of living in disaster have made mountains in my throat, blockading any vocal activity.
But now, for the first time in 6 years, I'm actually writing what comes to my lips. And as my lips part, to spew my words, the cold January rain falls onto them and lets them be moistened. Dry cracked lips that open and close allowing voice to emerge...that's what I feel like today. All this time, I took breaths, hoping some noise would escape...but all that came out a hoarse whisper. But now, i rumble comes from within and noise explodes from me.
"I am me and these are my words." It continues. "Hear my words." Today was the day I felt alive.
Does any of this make sense? I'm rambling. Rambling is what I am good at. That and running away. I'm good at swallowing more leaves and running away from what I don't understand. Like CJ and Mom. I ran away at the first sign of a failing family. failed family number 3. Krystle told me the other night that the family we had was a dream family. Maybe it was just a dream...All make believe. Something I conjured up to make the useless life I was living seem real. Was CJ and the boys a figment of my overactive imagination or was it all a reality? Was I really part of something wonderful or was it all a facade? Kind of like playing charades...or hide or go seek...I'll hide my eyes and go seek a life I really want.
You must walk alone to find your soul. Have I walked alone long enough to have found my soul? How much longer must I walk to realize that my soul is a part of me that died when CJ left? How much longer can I lie to myself? I'm in a never-ending movie and I despise my character. A movie that I can play and watch as if I'm in it, but watching it and be a critic about my life. My so-called life. Barbed wire and rose petals.
Where will I be in 5 years? Better yet, where does my life lead me this time next year? I just want happiness. Where is the perfect family I crave? Where is my happily ever after?
What if it never comes??
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