How far does one venture into the black hole of a childhood?
The more I think, the more I write, the more I feel, the more I allow myself to remember, the more horror I unwrap. One of my biggest fears is drawing near.
What if I cannot stop?
Stop feeling, stop remembering, stop hurting, stop crying, stop traveling at light speed face-first into the fist of my past...
I have been this close to facing this fear before. And then I found convenient excuses to stop. Or run. I'm pretty much out of excuses these days. I am stable; my medications are doing their job. I have good support. I am not being abused. I am not in the midst of any sort of crisis. All of these positives are stepping stones in the right direction. Great.
I enjoy writing; I think that is probably pretty obvious. I enjoy the control. I share what I wish and I conceal what I do not wish to share. It works out perfectly. Or at least I like to think it does...
My husband tells me to just start talking. I think he's being ridiculous. No one just opens their mouth and starts spilling their secrets. When you spill something it is hard to control the mess. I like control. What if I lose the little control that I have?
I keep telling myself that I have already been through the worst of this. But what happens when feeling and remembering leaves a mark? What if who I find is maimed, ruined, and disfigured?
“Shall I Crucify Your King?” #UNITE Linky
22 hours ago