Healing and re-healing and more fucking healing.

 Here we go again, trying to heal through a variety of childhood traumas. Buckle the fuckle up, I guess.

So, my childhood was sprinkled with violence as much as it was surrounded by love. That's what you get when your parents never went to therapy for their traumas and subconsciously fucking up their children as a consequence. The only reason I could find myself forgiving them for their parenting mistakes is because I know they never meant to, and they are aware of what their mistakes caused, and they are actively trying to fix and understand our pain. Not every parent is like them, I am well aware, and I also know that their mistakes are not everything they are to me.

There is a huge difference between parents who consciously and knowingly hurt their children and parents who just made mistakes. 

For all their mistakes caused my childhood to retain damages, they also tried their best to show me love in the ways they had never been shown by their own parents, and I appreciate that. They themselves were adults who had their own childhood traumas and reliving it through their days while parenting us, in a society that stigmatized and demonized mental health and mental illness. They tried their best, and I acknowledge that.

Yet my own reality is one I must live, with the consequences of their mistakes. I myself must heal the wounds and hurt by those mistakes, and wounds made in times as a child is a lot deeper than an adult wound. 

A child who had felt confused why they have wounds.

Why they had to carry the burden that they shouldn't have.

The resentment which had built from lack of reassurance and care.

My siblings tend to joke about the violence we faced as children, because it was a common practice back then and by downplaying it, it felt easier to swallow. It felt as if it was just another Thursday, instead of a horrifying event that marked our adult behaviors.

At one point, I had to wonder whether it was truly discipline or just a way to control us. Was it necessary to leave bruises? I hate how I knew what color bruises turn by day. I hate the drop in my stomach when somebody raises their fucking voice around me. I hate how I could still vividly remember the color of blood on white tiles.

I hate how I felt I had to step up to protect my younger siblings but nobody had protected me. I understand that my sister at the time could only focus on her own survival but I wished somebody...SOMEBODY would just...help me. 

help me.

help me.

help me.

help me.

why won't anyone help me?

why won't anyone look at me?

why won't anyone care that my younger siblings are bleeding?

why won't anyone ask what did we feel?

why would you beat me for clumsy mistakes?

why would you hurt us?

why was I the one left behind to wipe the blood and put the furniture back in their place, because I was fucking afraid that we will get beaten if my parents come home to a messy house?

why?

WHY?

NOT ONE APOLOGY FROM YOU WHEN YOU BEAT US

NOT ONE APOLOGY FROM YOU OTHER THAN SILENT GUILTY LOOKS AND BACKHANDED COMMENTS ABOUT HOW IT'S EVERYONE ELSE'S FAULT BUT YOURS

NOT ONE APOLOGY FOR LETTING US LIVE IN FUCKING FEAR OF ANGERING YOU

NOT ONE APOLOGY FROM YOU BUT ALL AND EVERY FUCKING APOLOGY FROM ME

my self-harming tendencies that feels like home, came from you.

your mistakes.

you made pain feel like home to me.

you made me feel pain gave me escape, because my child's mind would dissociate and off to a peaceful place where nothing hurts when you litter bruises on my skin.

YOU GAVE ME SHIT FOR TRYING TO HEAL FROM YOUR MISTAKES 

I love you, and I still love you, and I will always love you. 

yet I wish you would apologize for your mistakes.

my love for you and my anger at you can co-exist.

Because my reality are full of consequences from your mistakes.

my independence came from the disappointment of a bleeding, bruised child. A child who had no option but to toughen up and find her own strength because NOBODY WOULD FUCKING SAVE HER SO SHE HAD TO SAVE HERSELF.

I had to save myself. Protect my own mind, as I take on the burden of protecting my siblings the best I could. I didn't gave two fucks about my own physical wounds, which even now remain as scars on my body. I ignored my own bleeding wounds so that they would remain not physically hurt or hurt somebody else. My child body was a fucking collateral damage. 

and now here I am, drowning in my mind screaming the same thing over and over again.

save me.

save me.

save me.

save me.

save me.

save me.

SAVE ME.

SAVE ME.

SAVE ME!

SAVE ME!

FUCKING PLEASE! SAVE ME!

please.....


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