Dear me, it’s not your fucking fault

Dear me,

It’s not your fault if you were humiliated as a child.

It’s not your fault if someone who had no business to undressed you against your will as a young child.

It’s not your fault that schoolkids said your nose was ugly and your ears were big.

It’s not your fault if a teacher tried to get schoolboys to stop you from leaving a classroom.

It’s not your fault if your family members compared you to a monkey.

It’s not your fault if you felt like a nothing and a nobody every day of your childhood and teen years.

It’s not your fault if you spent your young adult life cutting your arms, and cutting your hair twice trying to make your mother notice.

It’s not your fault she ignored you.

It isn’t your fault you suffered from so much severe anxiety.

It’s not your fault you hated yourself, and have begun to do the same.

It’s not your fault that the men you dated called you ugly, a whore, weird, and a terrorist.

It’s not your fault that one was married. It’s not your fault he didn’t believe you when you were pregnant. It’s not your fault he called you a murderer when you have to terminate for fear of your life.

It’s not your fault that people still bully you on social media.

Dear me,

It isn’t your fucking fault that when you commit suicide, the world will not miss you. None of these people will. Only your parents will mourn you.

It’s not your fucking fault. Stop hurting yourself. Just stop. Stop crying your heart out. Stop hurting yourself. IT. IS. NOT. YOUR. FAULT.

My memories plague me

It’s 5am, and my mind is racing.

It’s taken me back to a distinct memory, from which I visibly cringe, and the heat is emenanating from my face as I remember.

Several other bad memories seem to be jostling for space, each as mortifying and embarrassing as the other.

I have a pathological fear of humiliation. To be shown up in public, to be caused to appear weak, and having done something which exposed me in some way sears onto my brain like an imprint from a hot poker.

My memories plague me. I don’t want to remember. I wish I could erase them. I wish I didn’t care about that pathetic time I spoke too loudly, or I choked back the lump in my throat when arguing with someone who knew better than me. Insisting I was right.

Shouting that I’m not going to be quiet anymore. And thinking that I really ought to control myself.

Why do these memories stay with me? The other people who were present at such events have probably completely forgotten about them.

They don’t remember the small, weak girl, with the distinctive face making a fool out of herself.

Just a stupid fool. Like the one sat in the small, plastic chair, feeling empty because the teacher has shown everyone else how stupid she is. Over and over and over. They might as well have pointed and laughed at me.

It’s apparent how anxiety has a way of making me mourn the past as well as the present.

There are several clouds with me today. And the sun hasn’t even risen yet.