I feel so bad today, inside it feels like I can’t breathe, I want to cut so badly. I even visualise it, not just doing it, but the pain that comes from it, like unzipping my skin to let myself breathe, the same way one might do to relieve the strain on a tight pair if jeans.
That’s what I need to do. I watch the blood in my mind, it rolls down slowly from where I have cut, it’s warm and soothing, like a miniature carrier, it’s transports my pain to the outside.
I try to ask myself why I’m feeling this way, what’s causing it. Things are happy, I should feel happy. I shouldn’t feel this emptiness inside, but I do.
Then I realise, maybe it’s the child inside, the one fighting and hurt with so many things going around my mind and no one to sooth him.
A dream from a couple of days ago, one of a memory and I think, I can’t share that. I can’t tell anyone. But I can. It isn’t my shame. It’s my mothers it’s all hers. She did it to me, not the other way around.
I feel like I’m choking in the memory of her telling me to touch her tongue with mine, and her doing the same. Hers so much in my mouth that I couldn’t breathe.
It’s not my shame. It’s hers. She did it. Not me. Not me. Not me.
I think about the things she did. Where her hand went, the way she laid on me. I can feel it there, almost like it’s right now.
I get afraid to share this. I want to hide and run away.
But it is not my shame.
She did this to her child. The woman that was my mother. Not me.