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There’s a piece of me broken somewhere, I don’t know why it happened, or when. Was it when I was a kid? Was that when I broke? Have I been broken since I’ve been born? I don’t know. I think back and try to remember how I was when I was little, how my mind worked, but I can’t. It’s too far away, too far gone. But now I feel like I’m falling apart, or maybe I just now realize that I’ve already fallen. There have been too many years of bad decisions, too many years of problems caused directly by my action or inaction.
Does everyone feel like a waste of space? Does everyone feel like they were put on this planet for no reason, not to learn, only to suffer? All I do know, is that for as long as I can remember, whenever I’ve tried to carve out my little piece of happy, something has come along to show me I was wrong. I keep waiting for the rest of my life to crumble. It’s happening. I can feel it just around the corner. A moment in time that is fast approaching. Hurdling its way toward my destruction like a meteor and there isn’t anything I can do to avoid the collision.
Some bad choices felt right at the time, felt like they’d be ok. While others I knew, as I was making them, that I should not do this thing. And here is something that wounds its way through my mind in my darker hours: I was molested, yet I remain quiet. This is a choice I have made. Who to tell, who not to tell. Still, I make that choice. I decided to not say anything. I remember knowing it was wrong. I remember hating every moment of it but still choosing to remain quiet.
That’s a choice I made. It was not a good one, but it was a choice. It is a choice everyone who is abused makes. The choice to do nothing. To say nothing. To keep it inside.
And now it’s all come full circle. I was always proud that I did not turn around and abuse anyone. I didn’t beat my kids (a strange fear I had because I could tell I had it in me, that uncare that comes when you hit someone), proud that I never molested a child. What a thing to be proud of…. but I still abused. My husband has gotten the worst of me, and I don’t think there is a best of me to be had. I keep waiting for it to be done. For him to realize that he can never forgive this. Me. This mess that is me. Too many years of ignoring his desires, or of painting him with jealousy, or betraying his trust. It’s no wonder he points out my faults so quickly, is the first to say I told you so, even if he didn’t, even if the situation does not call for it. He is too good of a man to hurt me purposefully or callously, as it seems I have done to him. He is too good of a person to lash out at the one he loves with malice. So, it happens accidentally, it slips out of him, smoke that curls around my heart, slowly choking the oxygen out of my blood.
I hate songs that are about strength of will, about how much fight is left, about how I can survive, because I’m empty. I know that I don’t have any will. I have no will to fight, to survive. I just live, because there is no alternative. I refuse to kill myself, I tell my therapist that I don’t think about killing myself, and that’s true. But I always think that I should be dead, that it’d be better if I were hit by a car and killed instantly. Hoping for that odd gunman to kill the poor, innocent bystander. I don’t have the will to do it myself, I don’t have the courage to pull the trigger, nor the desire to be the reason I died. I have ruined enough lives, killing myself would ruin the lives of my children, and I would never hurt them like that. I have no more faith in anything because the one thing I had faith in, the one thing that gave me that will, is crumbling.
I’ve torn it apart I’ve torn it down I’ve—
destroyed the foundations
I don’t think we’re strong enough anymore I—
just don’t… I just can’t see it… working.
I know that a year from now, two years from now, we’ll be apart. Either he will decide he can’t handle being unhappy anymore or I will decide I can’t handle making him unhappy anymore. I just want him to be happy and I don’t think he can be happy with me anymore. Having that kind of certainty is scary.
The biggest emotion I feel besides fear is my love for him. The fear of losing him is all encompassing. It’s really gone beyond fear. He doesn’t know, I think, how it affects me when I know he’s depressed but chooses not to tell me. He doesn’t understand the way it winds around my soul and squeezes because I know that if it weren’t for me, he’d be happy.
Even after his heart was broken by someone else, he desired me. He wanted me every day. He showed me he wanted me, every day. Sometimes, more than once a day. Sometimes less, but I always felt wanted. I didn’t realize how much until that desire went away. And now I feel its loss. There is an emptiness in his eyes. He looks, but he doesn’t see, doesn’t process what he does see, and if he does, it isn’t what he wants to be looking at. Not me. Not this person who keeps trying to destroy the man he is.
He forgets he loves me. He forgets to say it, he forgets to show it, and maybe one day he won’t remember it anymore. When that happens, I think that is when he’ll decide our joint happiness is no longer worth the effort. If it’s not worth the effort, then why do it? Why bother with something that will be hard anyway? Isn’t that what he says to me about other things? Maybe he’s right, if it’s hard, it isn’t worth the effort. And this last few years, these last few months, have been effort upon effort upon effort. Anything that can go wrong, goes wrong. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the universe is trying to tell us that we’re not meant to be here anymore, together. Maybe Rhiannon’s death was the first sign that I ignored, maybe the first sign was when he left me standing alone in the middle of the mall in NYC. Ok, not alone, he didn’t leave me there, but he didn’t walk with me, and he wouldn’t sit with me. Maybe that was the first sign…maybe my problem is that I have never listened. I want what I want when I want it. And I want him, so fuck the universe and what it wants.
I only want him to love me like he used to. Before he forgets how that used to feel.
I am a technical communicator who is currently in search of work. I can edit anything. I have a Master of Arts degree, and experience in editing and writing grants, essays, resumes, websites, articles, poetry, prose, instructions, and teaching materials.
I dream in vivid detail-lately about zombies. Love isn't just a dream, it's a reality.
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MiracleShe felt it tingle up from her palms, through the fingers and up her arms. Most of time, Lily tried to avoid it at all costs, touching or being touched was something the little girl did with caution.
But this was different.
It's Sammy, the little girl justified, hedging closer to the bed. It isn't bad if it's Sammy
Sammy, whose mom kept crying and crying, even made his dad frown. Sammy that hadn't opened his eyes ever since he was brought in; Sammy that had fallen on a sharp stake and now slept with a hole on his tummy.
Lily didn't understand why everyone was so sad.
She knew Sammy had made a boo-boo but he would be fine! Lily knew he would, she could even see how his mood changed, how he slept. And a lot might she add!
It wasn't fair!
He had promised to show her his secret hideout that even Noah didn't know about! Sammy was just being lazy
So the little girl had decided to take the next step.
Afraid the girl had k