I’m putting her away deep in a box I constructed long ago. She doesn’t want to go back. She’s kicking and screaming and throwing a total fit. But she’s not required anymore. She’s not useful and all she does is make me cry.
It’s not my demon. No, ultimately, she’s been right every time. I designed her to protect my most tender spots and she’s tried. I thought I wanted her gone. But it’s better for the other part to go away.
The part that loves and cares too strongly. The part that still has hope that this isn’t really my life. She’s unrealistic, immature and soft. Too soft. These last two years have been mostly miserable – because she hoped for a different outcome. She’s always hoping. But my life is not supposed to have what she needs. I see that now. So, she goes back.
It’s hard. It hurts. Of course it does. There were a few times when I have been ecstatic about my life. But those are off moments. And they make it worse when reality comes crashing in. I think I deserve something good, but that’s not in my cards. I don’t even want to try anymore. I just want to move forward and forget this childish nonsense in my head.
I want the chaos to calm. That’s not some kind of threat to hurt myself. But it’s also a hope that I don’t hurt myself even more. My self-destruction is more subtle; slow. I likened it today to someone cutting themselves – except I do it to my mind. I find the most inventive ways to do it, too. Not alcohol or drugs or other overt ways. Those are easy to spot. People get frustrated with me because they don’t get it. Because I look ok. I sound ok. I’m really just an undercover nutter.
I’m afraid to try again. I’d forgotten and then refused to acknowledge that this is it for me. Too late. I’ve fully embraced the curse of my mother’s line. Being someone other isn’t possible for me. Not anymore.
So, I’m going against everything my therapist suggests. She means well, I know. But I don’t think she fully gets what I mean when I tell her these things. Loving myself, right now, means letting go of the part that hurts. I don’t need her anymore. I need the fierce, bitchy part of me more than anything.
It’s taking some time, but I’ve found a way to hurry it along. Wounds need to scar over and that scar tissue needs to be thick. With every hurt feeling I get a little cooler. More aloof. Less concerned with the tender feelings of others. More cruel. I will be sweet as anything, but woe to the person who might fall in love with me. I’ll love my family and friends forever. Everyone else can fuck themselves.
This is probably not good for people who are in the habit manipulating and controlling me. I’ve stopped pretending around Millie – which is a big step. I won’t ask for respect anymore. These mofos are used to using me for whatever. Everyone who thinks I am the person I allowed TheMan to mold me has been a little shocked. I don’t care anymore. The shin-kicking portion of this shit show is over. I’m done with the giving and getting. And I’m done bowing to my betters. I’m done worrying about some white trash skanks as if they mean anything to my life. I can’t say I’m done with the rage, though. The demon that thrives on that rage?
I like geeky stuff, politics, squirrels and monkeys.