I don’t want to think about it don’t want to think about it don’t want to believe it even if it’s true because if it’s true then I was wrong and I lied once but that means there’s more to it than I believed and that’s so much harder to deal with than thinking I know it all already and it’s all like I remember and I’m not like those other people who suppress and forget because I never forgot anything I just didn’t think about it for a while and I didn’t think he would do that because he was my father and my dad and the whole thing is just absurd to think of anyway and it couldn’t possibly have been like that it couldn’t have it couldn’t have it couldn’t have even though for years and years I’ve wondered but what if it did and what if I did forget and what if I’m just suppressing it and trying not to think about it because it hurts so fucking much…
and if i say it’s not possible because he wouldn’t have done that, then that’s wrong too, because it shouldn’t have been possible that he did what he did that I actually remember clearly.
Hello, train of thought rambling. There’s more content here than ramble, even if it seems otherwise.
I start to feel sick when I think about this. A wrong feeling. And a feeling that I should do something about it. But I’m scared. and I’m suddenly tempted to do anything to think about anything else besides that.
Hello false memory. who are you protecting anymore? I would ask you to let me by, but I don’t think you want to. I don’t think I want to either, but I have to. I’m supposed to have dealt with this crap already. All nice and clean and put it away on the shelf somewhere to collect dust. It doesn’t work that way.
Hurt isn’t enough of a word for this. Imagine a jagged, burning, black spike stabbing you, then tearing up around inside… but never breaking the skin, just shredding, poisoning what’s under it. It burns and tears, and the poison gets into the blood and moves everywhere, heart, arms, legs, head, blurring everything that’s real and leaving only the pain.
I would rather be bleeding all over the floor than this. It’s more real. You can point at it and say “See? That’s why I hurt,” and people will understand. You want to know why I used to be a cutter? Well that’s it right there.
Strange things happen to your body when your soul hurts. Something stabs you in the side. It hurts to breathe. Your skin breaks out. You feel ill. You get a headache.
If it wasn’t real, it wouldn’t have this much impact on me. It does, though. It has impact on me in more ways than I probably even know.
Every single book I’ve read has told me that just because you don’t remember it, that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Now, everything I know logically says it did happen. I don’t want to let go of my blanket of non-memory, though… even though that is sketchy in itself.
I hurt. I’m angry. I’m crying. I feel sick.