In my last post I mentioned that blogging is like sucking poison out of my wounds so I decided that’s exactly what I’ll do for a whole post. Whilst working with my inner child, I realized that there is a part of me that I’d like to refer to as my inner teenager – a part I’ve tried to shut down for my whole life, which, I guess, was a huge mistake. It’s the part of me that doesn’t really care what others think and gets angry very easily. The part that listens to loud songs by people who wear too much make-up. The part that knows how to say no and how to enjoy attention. The part that roars when someone wants to hurt me and isn’t afraid of disappointing people in the process of self-defence. It’s the cocky part of me that wants to do things because they feel good, not because others expect them. My inner teenager is a warrior and I’ve never allowed this warrior to act. Until one or two years ago I didn’t allow myself to breathe in an audible way when I was running and I also didn’t allow myself to sigh or cry or anything of the sort. I’m slowly learning those things. But I’m a long way from all the shouting and roaring and screaming I have to catch up on. So here we go. Inner teenager, do your thing.
A thousand humiliations I silently suffered from because children can be so cruel.
A million tears I cried in the shower so nobody would notice.
Being locked into a classroom full of blackboards that said I was a piece of shit…and the school secretary who wasn’t even surprised when I called her and asked if she could get me out.
The energy I wasted trying to save people I couldn’t save.
The disbelief I encountered when going temporarily blind after a bad concussion.
All the monsters in my bedroom that told me they’d come for me if I called my parents or turned on the lights.
Every single touch I endured to satisfy somebody else.
All the “I love you”s I didn’t mean but had to say anyway.
Hundreds of stupid remarks that made me uncomfortable in the only clothes I felt safe wearing.
Every adventure I couldn’t have because I thought I had to stay at home.
All the times I couldn’t decide for myself in spite of all the grown-up things I had to deal with.
A hundred little rebukes I got for trivialities that only happened because I kept the big things inside.
All the make-up I should have tried at summer camp but was too afraid to use as people had enough reasons to make a fool of me even without failed attempts.
Every stab of pain I felt when being told how uncomplicated my puberty was just because I didn’t drink.
Thirty-one people telling me how I was an embarassement for my class because I couldn’t sing.
Every little fragment of privacy I would have needed so badly but was denied.
All the minutes that felt like eterneties when I was just trying not to feel, not to hear, but just sleep.
A friend who asked about those stories but never wanted to hear my answers.
The people who claimed to be worried about me but actually were grateful for all the pretty little lies I told them.
So many persons who loved my facade and didn’t even want to see what was behind it.
Every person who treated me like shit because I tried to make the world a better place with a job that didn’t help companies but people.
All the fucking great marks at school that fooled everyone into thinking I wasn’t shattered.
Two worlds that forced me to wear two faces, then three, then four, until I lost myself.
The fact that I could never quite put a finger on what exactly went wrong…and all the friends who thought I was weird because I kept telling them everything was a little…complicated at home.
Cars and shops and classrooms that went spinning around me when I thought I would never see my mum again.
All the times I told myself that there was no reason for my helplessness as had I never encountered physical violence or rape or drug abuse – all the times I told myself what a little wuss I was.
The years I lost because I wanted to be perfect.
Millions of moments that should have been beautiful but weren’t because I hated my body for the way it had been touched.
Being the only child in two huge, manipulative families with too many secrets – and no, I don’t doubt I was being loved.
Every moment in which I consciously didn’t do what would have been good for me due to the rules I had learned too well.
And also those moments where I hurt others who wanted to help in order to keep them from seeing.
This is not supposed to be an accusation and it certainly is not supposed to be self-pity. I do not wish to blame anyone for things happening the way they did, I don’t think I went through anything special. I am just trying to connect to all the feelings I should have felt then: Fear, shame, sadness, anger, contempt, fury, grief. I buried them all, I cut them out of my life and look where that brought me. When I look back at all the memories that hurt me, I only feel a shrug come up. A shrug, nothing more. And that has to change. According to my therapist I cannot let those things go before feeling them once. So I try feeling them. My body certainly does – my hands are shaking as I’m writing this, my heart is beating way too fast, my sight flickers. Because I still hardly breathe, because I still try to keep myself from feeling. Because I start telling myself how I could rationalize all this is and that I am not allowed to hurt anyone who could read this and find him- or herself in it.
But my precious inner teenager has been imprisoned for too long. I probably would be a completely different, maybe even dangerous person if it hadn’t been that way. But now is the time for all those lost feelings. I nearly wish for someone to provoke me until I start screaming and shouting and roaring until every last of those memories loses its terror. I also wish for this someone to hold me when the tears come afterward. I’m sure I couldn’t do it. I’m too good at keeping control over myself. But I know those feelings have to come out one day. Because my inner teenager deserves as much. Because I deserve that much. Because it’s necessary in order to move on. Necessary to stop the powerlessness that I’ve felt for most of my life. One day I’ll be free. Until that day comes I will roar on the inside.
And I hope I didn’t hurt anyone with this. I deserve being open about this.