lilacmawletterbox

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I just love when Mic is announcing, he makes me so happy

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I'll spill blood before I ever let that happen to me again

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sometimes all I want is for living not to be so excruciating

all I've been able to do for days is struggle to survive as my body is trying to shut down after months of stress and neglect

I am so tired, but I can't stop; I've promised too many people important to me that I would keep trying, and I like to think that I'm the that won't stop trying until I'm bloody-mouthed, hunched over and stumbling forward to take another shot at getting well again

there's a Ukranian proverb I recently heard about that roughly translates to "living is hard, but dying would be a pity"

it's what I keep telling myself when I can't get up or stop shaking or crying

this and the people I love are what will get me through this

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cw: family/child abuse, dv, trauma, bodily functions, verbal/physical assault

Once, when I didn’t feel much like going to my brother’s lacrosse practice, I remember my mom beating me so hard that I had an accident for the first time in years.  I don’t remember why or how it started, but I remember we were yelling.  And then it was just her yelling; I was screaming, shrieking, begging her to stop.  

I must have been around ten or eleven.  It was the last time I really lost control of my bladder.  She was so much angrier then, because the flooring was made out of cork board tiles.  It would soak in if she didn’t clean it right away.

Whenever I’ve been hit since, I think about that moment. 

I thought about it when I was seventeen and fist-fighting my dad in the hallway.  It was the Fourth of July and I’d wanted to go out with friends to watch fireworks.  He was choking me, shoving me up against the wall so I wouldn’t leave.  We were screaming at each other.  The impact of my shoulders on the plaster made me pee a little. 

For a second I could only think about how I didn’t want them to notice, because it would only make them angrier, and I felt so much like a little kid again.  I also thought about it years later, when it was a stranger on the street grabbing me by the throat instead.  He kept saying he was going to kill me, to stop fucking calling him sir, that he was going to beat the shit out of me.  And for a few moments all I could think about was how I felt; like a kid, standing there on the sidewalk and trying not to look too afraid.

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I'm trying to remember what my childhood was like.

there isn't too much except smudged, muddy blurs.

my boyfriend walks in and asks what happened; I'm just staring at the blank page.

"I know what it looks like when you're sad," he tells me.

but he doesn't press further, just sits with me and rubs my back as the tears come.

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I've never been a good older sister,

and never a good enough younger one to merit a call or text, either.

Honestly, I'm not sure I've ever been good at all.

I've never been a good daughter;

I've been obedient and faithful and understanding, unendingly,

but still never enough to be good.

I've never been a good enough woman to be worth more than a fantasy; romantic, horny, violent.

No matter how they know me, it doesn't matter.

Sometimes I'm afraid

I've never been a good person,

because of the way I growl in my sleep and punch my pillow when I wake up, tense as if from a fight. (01/30/25)

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been so focused on surviving and gritting my teeth without cracking them too badly for so long that I almost forgot what it feels like to wake up without dread