“You know I’ve never written about the really harmful and impactful things that have happened in my life.” I told my girlfriend as she folded and put away her laundry. “I’ve never written about when I tried to stab that girl – when I got sent to the detention center, or the Abraxas program, or when I was sent to live with my grandparents. I’ve never even written about my rape.”
“I’m not surprised by any of this.” She replied.
I assume I haven’t written about these things because I’m a huge fan of repressing. I remember when I was young, I used to feel everything so intensely. I was sunshine and rage and thrashing inside my head. I let myself feel all the things I try so desperately to avoid these days. I used to feel empty or depressed or angry, I felt the madness of nearly a dozen hospitalizations over 8 years and the burning hatred of a thousand suns. There were days when I couldn’t see through the tears, or through the color of rage staining my world.
None of those feelings were particularly enjoyable. Over time I just slowly allowed myself to let go of the trauma of my youth. Although I must admit it is gone but not forgotten. Everyone is fighting an internal battle. Everyone has their deep dark secrets. I feel like I should really just get over it and move on. I thought I had, but the mere mention of those things long since passed, I fall into a depression, I curl up under the covers and suffer alone in silence.
I have sweet people in my life who care for me, and they want me to get help, they want me to talk about these things. They can see through my facade. They want me to work through it, my fears I guess lie with the fact that I’m terrified to become the pathetic emotive creature of my past again. If I let myself cry, will I ever stop?
Sunshine and Rage 