Why doesn’t anyone reach out to me and tell me how it is? Why do I have a permanent residence in the back ground of humanity with no one looking on, checking in, asking how I feel?
To them I am dead already, and a huge part of me –the part that used to need the slice of the blade to feel alive, knows I am already gone and the blade no longer cries out to me because even the droplets of crimson are no longer felt.
I quit cutting because Jon told me to. Demanded I do –or else.
Now, I tell myself that’s why I don’t cut, but the truth that I hold so deep is that I am scared of not feeling. That no blood will be there to fall. That I am already gone and don’t feel because that’s something the dead don’t do. And if I make it hurt, if I start again, what if I am alive and I can’t stop? What if I can’t go back?
Perhaps I am simply an addict in recovery –not that that is any simpler, but it makes more sense than being kidnapped by Jesus, dominated by man and abused by the lowliest kind.
This is not here. I am not sure where here is or how I will know if my hands have bones or if the shackles I can’t see are what paralyzes me into place.
I am sobbing and I am sorry.
It’s been just over 9 years since I signed that paper and let killers taker her life. 9 Years since I pulled the trigger and the unborn, my unborn died.
One thing I know about me is that I have no clue who I am or what I want.
I am an enigma wrapped in an illusion and I am trapped in this realm, in love with my own delusion.
A place where I am far from safe.
That lacks an escape.
Where nothing else matters because life is ours and it can’t hurt any worse.