How does it feel when you spend each day- each hour- moment... second... in a distracted state of pandemonium under crashing tidal waves, wishing for the very things that are not present, or dawning on crooked realities that do not, and cannot exist for so many reasons that I cannot begin to name them all. To be so consumed in your guilt that it keeps its' terse, chilled, pointed finger around your neck; being sure to tighten its' grip just to a point of slight struggle when you attempt to become consumed in anything but the very things that you have chosen to keep as your own secrets.
Your secrets are sick- and they keep you sick. But you do not wish to let these go because you are fearful. You believe that your sense of self as a person will diminish in its' last scrap of respect for yourself that you might have if you were to ever tell a soul of the things that you are so regretful of. You keep the devil at your back smiling because you are afraid of what will happen in disobeying that command to yourself. Somehow even though you know it's so diluted in shit that not even the flies would go near your mess... you still stand down.
Sorry doesn't fix things the way it used to when you were a small child. By all means, please apologize for the things you've done, but it no longer holds that magical fix all button trickery the way it might have when you were five, and you snuck an extra cookie. The scars are irriversible, and the damage is often lasting. To others, to things... to yourself. Yourself. You.
I am sorry to my body for not listening to it. For not stopping when I said I would- it is not my fault persay- they say it is not a choice, but even on the best days it is still a struggle to grasp that with my little, but ever strengthening fingers, and believe this story. I apologize for realizing I needed help, and at that point only getting much worse, and waiting two years to say I was ready. But sorry changes nothing. Actions speak louder than words. The damage is done. When you are laying on a bed with oxygen in your nose, under anesthesia at the tender age of twenty receiving several procedures most don't until well into their fifties- and they find damage... you know you've messed up. The damage is done.
I will fight and take action because it has now become the only option. When sorry doesn't fix things- it is time to stop mourning, get off your ass, and start taking progressive action to move forward. Today I came face to face with a piece of my past I had so longer blamed. So long I harbored hatred in my heart, even after believing I had forgiven. After today, I don't need to. When I had this encounter- I realized it was not her "fault"- it never was. Saying sorry probably won't ever fix that either. But it's never too late to emanate the love everyone deserves.
Your secrets are sick- and they keep you sick. But you do not wish to let these go because you are fearful. You believe that your sense of self as a person will diminish in its' last scrap of respect for yourself that you might have if you were to ever tell a soul of the things that you are so regretful of. You keep the devil at your back smiling because you are afraid of what will happen in disobeying that command to yourself. Somehow even though you know it's so diluted in shit that not even the flies would go near your mess... you still stand down.
Sorry doesn't fix things the way it used to when you were a small child. By all means, please apologize for the things you've done, but it no longer holds that magical fix all button trickery the way it might have when you were five, and you snuck an extra cookie. The scars are irriversible, and the damage is often lasting. To others, to things... to yourself. Yourself. You.
I am sorry to my body for not listening to it. For not stopping when I said I would- it is not my fault persay- they say it is not a choice, but even on the best days it is still a struggle to grasp that with my little, but ever strengthening fingers, and believe this story. I apologize for realizing I needed help, and at that point only getting much worse, and waiting two years to say I was ready. But sorry changes nothing. Actions speak louder than words. The damage is done. When you are laying on a bed with oxygen in your nose, under anesthesia at the tender age of twenty receiving several procedures most don't until well into their fifties- and they find damage... you know you've messed up. The damage is done.
I will fight and take action because it has now become the only option. When sorry doesn't fix things- it is time to stop mourning, get off your ass, and start taking progressive action to move forward. Today I came face to face with a piece of my past I had so longer blamed. So long I harbored hatred in my heart, even after believing I had forgiven. After today, I don't need to. When I had this encounter- I realized it was not her "fault"- it never was. Saying sorry probably won't ever fix that either. But it's never too late to emanate the love everyone deserves.
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