May 292017

The pen and the paper have met many times over the last weeks, but the cursor continues to be cursed, blinking tauntingly at my weathered soul, begging for me to reveal to the world the depths of the holes that penetrate so far and wide that not even light can traverse the jagged mass.

Every breath I take hurts my soul, knowing its breath that I no longer want. My pain in my body can be dulled by the medications, but the pain in my soul has nowhere to go, nothing to take it away. I find myself in doubt. Questioning existence, torture, pain and beg the question why?

I’ve searched psychology books, history books, the Bible and my own faith and all that stands out to me is when Job says, “I have no rest, for trouble comes” because trouble always comes.

Only, now I ask myself, am I the trouble? Am I the cause of the pain? Do I bring this hurt upon myself? Do I beg it into my life instead of goodness and strength? Have I subconsciously killed away the children that once grew in my womb? Washing them out to punish myself… Can the subconscious mind even do that? Can mind really kill matter? Can mind end the life of another, stop the heart from having another beat?

Did I do this to myself? I can’t help but believe I did.

I deserve to be punished. I deserve to hurt. I deserve to choke on the tears of grief that can no longer be swallowed back. “I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel”, and the saddest part is I often don’t.

I am reckless. I am on the edge of a cliff unable to step back from the dangerous edge and begging to be pushed forward into the ending gravitational pull.

No one understands me because I simply don’t understand myself.

Life with depression, anxiety, and feeling like your value is only held in the hands of others is no way to live at all. Some days, I wonder if I am living at all. Most days I know I am not.

Sep 172016

I never knew that I could or would learn to be ashamed of my nakedness again, looking at my body and feeling like it should be hidden under layers of shapeless clothes, covering the saggy-breasts and stretch marks caused by having babies, the extra weight and even cellulite on my bum and hips becoming something that make me hate the mirror all while I am supposed to sit there and look into that same piece of glass and tell myself I am beautiful and loved, when a month ago I felt beautiful, I felt loved, and now I can barely look myself in the eyes without seeing the ugliness that everyone else must see when they look at me.

I wash my face and brush my teeth and when I lock eyes with my own tears well up and trickle down my cheeks, leaving a salted surface that feels like it’s eating away the very flesh that no one should be seeing anyway.

I am ugly.

I’ve never thought those three words before. I have thought I am fat. I need to lose weight. I have health issues. I have stretch marks or what I once called lines of love since they were formed while I was growing a child inside of me with months of bed rest keeping my weight out of control.

Yet today, and right now, I want to cover the mirrors in a shroud of black. I don’t want to see my reflection, or to be seen by anyone at all. I want to tape over my webcam just in case it accidentally gets turned on so that no one can be disgusted by the “what” that I have become. I toss on clothes despite being uncomfortably hot while covered in layers of thick blankets that already hide my body, just so I don’t have to see myself.

Like my ugliness is so appalling I shouldn’t even glance with my own eyes.

A month ago I was supposed to go in and get my annual check up and asked the nurse if my doctor could do it because he knows my scars and wounds and I don’t want anyone else to see them, now I won’t be making the appointment at all because I don’t want to disgust him with my nakedness, having to touch me through latex-free gloves and swab samples from the parts that are hidden away that most definitely shouldn’t be seen.

Last night I wore a long shapeless tunic with sleeves that met my hands and a skirt that met my ankles and I felt disgusting and exposed because I was wearing flip flops instead of something that would have covered me completely, like a pair of boots.

And yet, I am supposed to believe I am beautiful and all I want to do is hide.

Words cut deeper than any razor, knife or scalpel ever could. My confidence went from healthy to non-existent but it’s not anyone’s fault but my own because I am emotional and twist the words so they hurt instead of taking them to mean whatever they are “supposed” to.

I actually thought today that I should put on some makeup, not to feel pretty or playful, but to hide the disgusting skin I am in. Instead I stayed in bed all day because no one would want to see me anyway.

Because, I am ugly.

Sep 082016

I hope you can see how sorry I am with my downcast eyes and the tears that silently form along the edges and escape down my cheek. The salty taste as they run over my lips, a reminder that you are hurt and disappointed in me and my refusal to obey simple orders.

There are no words for how many times I said “no” to the one who cares for me or the tantrum I threw like a toddler in the night, not getting her way to stay up late. Ignoring the sweet pleas in your tone that were more than willing to work with me to keep me safe… only, looking back now I see that the safety net was a simple mirage and that sometimes I have to hit the cold hard ground in order to learn from my middle of the night mistakes.

I feel very child-like, but not in the fun way, not where I get a love swat or can even envision your mouth on my neck and jaw teasingly working up to meet my mouth and showing me that anything can be beautiful if I just lean in to you and trust you to keep me safe.

I tremble each time I click send, not because I am scared but because I don’t want to cause hurt. I don’t want to be out of line. I don’t want to break the rules that I have given you dominion over in my life and as fast as that ground comes up and smacks me dead on relentlessly I am reminded that I am the one who has asked you to take me.

Volunteering my body to be used at your will, control no longer my own and the ability to take it back only a word or two away while I don’t see myself ever asking to be free. The strings between my soul and yours remaining uncut, like an umbilical cord pumping everything the unborn baby needs into it, making it a healthier, stronger person when they escape the cocoon of their mother’s womb.

I am struggling a ton right now with things from the past that are distracting my mind and making it so I don’t want to sleep because I don’t feel safe when I close my eyes in the black of the night and I struggle to find the words to express that pain or that fear that seemingly haunts me even while heavily sedated.

I know you only want whats best for me and that you only have my best interest at heart and yet the part of me that misbehaves seems so far away from who I am. I’m a girl who has offered her submission to you and you have never done anything to deserve the disrespect I have shown.

Part of me fears that there may be changes I don’t like and part of me fears I will keep testing the boundaries without ever fully understanding why I feel the need to test them at all.

I know my past has a lot to do with it, because those boundaries always changed and rules that were one thing one day were not the same the next and punishment had to be given for things I didn’t even know was wrong. I beg for consistency so that I can be good and when I find someone whose love is consistent and their interest is in my safety it is still a hard thing to grasp mentally, and for whatever reason I push, like I am on the inside of a balloon and struggling to see if I can make it pop.

I want to be yours, completely, or at least as completely as you will have me. I want my mind, body and soul to crave your words and your attention like it is the water of life. I need to eagerly await your waking up and saying “good morning” to me and know that I haven’t caused a bad day by ending the night in a horrible way.

Today I know that while most of last night was a blur that my behavior will not be tolerated and being medicated isn’t an excuse to be disobedient. Seeing everything that I said in broken English as my body and mind no longer worked together and I fought it anyway is hard to look at, to know that those precious moments can so easily be destroyed. I have no clue how many times I have said sorry and I realize that “sorry” isn’t worth the paper it is written on without change, but I am sorry and more importantly I am eager to try harder to be obedient, to do what I need to in order to please you, and to accept responsibility when I cross a line.

My body still hurts like I have been beaten, the bruising on the insides a constant reminder of the breaths I take and the fact that I don’t need to fight my body because fighting my body doesn’t get me anywhere and in order to heal I have to obey you because you are the one who is caring for my health, who is concerned about the bruising and the tenderness that touch me physically while also wounding my soul.

I know you don’t want to put my light out. I know that you love me. I know that you care about me. I know that any challenge you give me is for pleasure and maybe a little bit of fun pain and definitely to help me grow into the girl you want me to be. You see potential where I see darkness. I want my actions and my words to reflect the respect I have for you.

For all of the trouble I have caused you, and all the pain I have inflicted not only on you, but also on myself, I am truly sorry, my love. I know that forgiveness may come easily but that doesn’t mean that everything is put back to the way it was. I destroyed some of the trust you had in me and I promise to do my best to earn it back, now and always.

Aug 212016

I laid there with the hot water dripping down my foot and for a few seconds I wondered if the scalding pain would force me to move but my eyes have been so heavy and before I knew it they were fighting to stay awake, the sounds of a house asleep and the rhythmic burning drip running between my toes putting me to sleep like a parched-summer welcomes rain.

I opened my eyes and I was still in the tub, only I was standing in the shower and it was home, but not this home, not where I have come to be but where I ran from and my body deceived me, not moving or comprehending what was going on. My hair being used as a handle to push me to my knees and I thought to myself “I remember this” as the panicked bile started to rise.

I instinctively closed my eyes knowing what was going to come next. My head pushed back into the wall and there nothing to grab, the shower curtain replaced by shower doors and nothing to hold onto and the only thing keeping me upright at all is the knotted hand in my hair.

I heard his voice so far away and yet too close for comfort. Did I dream that I had escaped? His salted heat hit me in the face and I didn’t want to open my eyes because I didn’t want to see him, or his body. I just wanted it to all go away. Did he really just do that to me? And before another thought can even begin he twists me around and his urine hit my hair, running through it and down my back and then my face and chest. Tears stuck somewhere inside of me as the degradation and reality set in. I was his all right. I had no choice. Tossed out of the shower and cuffed behind my back before I could even try and wipe myself clean.

I jolted awake and saw my foot growing red under the faucet and looked around, I am not bound anymore and yet 11 years after escaping I could feel it all like it was yesterday. I scrubbed and scrubbed again, making my skin itchy-red-raw and my hair so clean that it feels like straw.

Flashbacks plague me. Not everyday, but when they do they come fast and hard and without warning or notice. I felt so filthy laying in the bath I had to get out and I couldn’t hold it down anymore and my body heaved and purged itself of the toxicity of the memories of the past.

I scrubbed my face and took in the smell of my moisturizer -fresh roses- and stood there looking at myself naked in the mirror, staring into scars I don’t want to see, scars that tell anyone who sees that I have been used, abused, and that I am ugly. I slipped on my pj top over my wet skin with my hair hanging and dripping into the thin fabric.

The panic still trapping me like a coffin being nailed shut even though my surroundings indicate I am free. I feel the weight on my chest and the strain in each breath. The lights are all on but it’s the blackness from the underground that I can see.

Aug 052016

In some sort of twisted manner I am punishing myself. I have always punished myself. Ever since that day in the snow where innocence was lost to a man who held me firmly in place while forcing himself on me, into me, violating me right there between the two houses and my body numb, maybe that was when my mind decided to protect itself, to punish itself, to cause an ugliness that no one could ever want or love, or maybe it was the iced snow that I was melting into causing me to float away from myself and the shock of the bath water making sure I never fully came back.

I may not have any new blooded lines covering my raw and naked flesh but that doesn’t mean that I am not suffering, the only difference is no one can see the pain I am feeling and there is no visual representation of the scars on the inside healing, maybe it’s because they aren’t, they are my unspoken broken, the parts that I try to hand up to God and then with a single word I recoil like I am the serpent in the flesh and I wonder if maybe that’s why the God I praise doesn’t listen when I pray and instead allows me to be my own victim, my own prey.

My body trembles as the drug leaves my system, invisible chills that can’t be felt but cause my body to shiver just the same, the nausea causing bile to rise and I choke it back and swallow hard the nausea meds and the Tylenol with the candy coating and the migraine that has taken up permanent residence behind my eyes beats to the rhythm of it’s own drum and I sing lyrics I don’t know and I walk the broken streets of cobblestone and then he says it “Love you too Marisa” and the tears flow from a place in my head that I had worked so hard to pulverize without success.

My name. He uses my name. I have been given it back. The name I was given the moment I entered this world, the one that my parents toiled over while expecting me, the one my birth certificate states and the government knows me as, the name that had been stripped from me by the man who stripped me of everything. My name pops up on my screen and suddenly those flood gates aren’t made out of some great wall but instead the hurt is held back by a chain link fence and everything flows straight on through and I wonder if the gates were better when encased in the wall that will surely go back up.

The scars that I wear, tattooed to me as a reminder of where I have been and that I escaped the physical aspect, and they don’t bring me shame because every scar has a story, every line reads like a barcode that only I can scan. My veins throb beneath my skin and beg for release and my conflicted brain says no and yes at the same time and my heart hardens a little bit more while trying to contain the pain and I realize that I have my name but my identity has been cloaked in a dusted blanket of insanity and the cobwebs in my cathedral have left me in a constant place of self-imposed hurt that only I can see.


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