Acts of Destruction

It’s been hurting. It’s been like a blister that rubs against your sock and irritates it. I felt so raw, so exposed, and so frightened. I’ve never seen myself like that, and to have him see me like that so bare, so vulnerable. I scared myself into believing I was going to lose him. Everything felt tenuous, on a wire. I was so scared that he would see beyond the smoke and mirrors, past all the tricks and illusions and walk away. I couldn’t even talk. I was shuddering and making noises at him, trying to speak, my words were broken into shatters of phrases.

I hated how I felt. I don’t even know how to put into words how I felt, but every thought I had looped every mistake, every problem, everything that made me fall apart was my own fault. The fact that I was raped was because I went to his apartment. The fact that I was abused was because I invited him over. Then, I kept telling myself I was damaged goods, that I wasn’t deserving of love because I was just a broken toy.

It’s a pity of timing because I posted my sunshine post for a friend who just attempted suicide. Then, my mother’s best friend died after struggling with cancer. I felt so ashamed of struggling with my feelings the way I do. I feel like I shouldn’t even voice them because my feelings aren’t eating away at me like cancer, nor are they compelling me to kill myself, but damn if the feelings don’t make me feel worthless and ugly.

I’m finally feeling like myself again, but I feel like this week has set me back. It has taken all the things I worked towards and unwound them. It’s like building a gigantic clock, and then, someone unwinding it and taking it apart–not to see how it worked, but rather just to be destructive.

I unwound myself and took myself apart, and the greatest act of destruction was the desolation of my broken, despairing heart.



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