#the things about my childhood are funnily the hardest; the admittance of wanting something and missing something makes my skin crawl

[monomorphilogical]

The list

Good lord, how I am unable to admit some things to myself.

This morning, it was merely I, who stared into the bathroom mirror; no soul around but my own haggard one. The mirror, partially fogged, did not even show the fullness of me, and yet, yet I could not make myself say the words to my own reflection.

Lord, I was barely able to think them clearly; only a mere concept floating around my head with a notion of truth, not whole and not untrue. I bit my lip hard enough to draw blood, and I clamped my teeth together hard enough to ache even now, deep into the afternoon.

So hereby; the list of everything I cannot say, but I will force myself to do so anyhow. For the sake of honesty, bravery and spite.

I have been staring at this empty list for twenty-five minutes, hand covering my mouth, astonished, that I cannot even write down the truths on paper. This is because I am terrified of admitting that which makes me vulnerable.

Vulnerability makes me believe I am one of the weak, not because I am better than those vulnerable, but because it opens up the possibility of getting harmed, ridiculed, ignored.

I often get the urge to bury a knife in the middle of my thigh, as a protest, perhaps as a distraction, or punishment.

A gentle touch wakes up a starving animal within me; and it screams to be beaten into a pulp until it cannot growl any longer.

I do not know what love-making truly is, I have never experienced it, and a sick part of me would rather be beaten and gutted than find out.

I understand pain, I do not understand those who do not.

I am writing down these truths first to avoid the ones I am struggling to admit.

I am more comfortable talking about the act of abuse than about the yearning of care.

Sex makes me want to scream out for them to 'tear me apart' because I cannot handle a hand laid upon my skin any longer. No matter the heavy-handedness, nor gentleness (which may be worse).

I think I am very sensitive.

I experience thought, emotion, and art quite deeply; it is like a wound that cannot close.

I feel like a small girl still, and it is bothersome to look into the mirror and see someone so very grown up.

I dislike my mother, and her tendency to manipulate my convictions and emotions, it took me far too long to understand what were her opinions and what were my own.

I wish I had a father who cared for me, and I wish he was one to keep me safe; instead of the source of danger.

I was just a little girl, and I needed my father to hold me, and I needed my mother to listen to me.

I still need my father to hold me, and my mother to be kind to me. (though I will never have this, for this is not something they can ever offer me; nor can I ever accept any form of care from them)

I am fairly certain that I do not know what love is, precisely.

I do not know how to possibly love, but also I do not know how to hate.

I am terrified of being less than someone deserves; or being bothersome.

I am also fairly certain I will make many mistakes in any relationship, and though I will try my hardest; it is up to them to decide if I am worth it. That terrifies me.

I do not believe I am worth it.

I do not believe I am worth anything to anyone but myself.

Intimacy, in any form, is my greatest enemy, and I fear I will fight it until my knuckles crack and bleed.

I am vulnerable.

I want to be cared for.

I am tired of being responsible of care, I want someone to take it off my hands every once in a while.

I crave to be held.

I crave someone to tell me it is all well. No matter the truth in it.

I wish I had someone to look out for me.

I spend all my pastime in my own head; reading books, listing to music, imagining some other version of my life, anything to escape the crushing weight that are my horrid memories.

I am afraid I will not be able to escape in this way were I to be in a relationship.

I am afraid that will make life dull, since all that lives in my head is the horror and grotesque and dramatics, and I have gotten very much used to the intensity of it all.

Almost none of my scars are because of accidents, clumsiness or the cat. I am good at making them look like they are.

I tell people all of them are from my teenage years. It’s only a half-truth.

Were I not afraid of its consequences, I would slash open the entirety of my body.

I often get the inexplicable urge to sink my teeth into my own skin. I do not know why. It makes my teeth ache with want. I suspect it is a form of self destruction.

I am afraid that when I cry to be torn apart, I am really crying to be held gently. I suspect you have to restrain me first, for I will try to kick and scream as you do so.

I want someone to be strong enough to restrain me until I can be held with gentle hands.

I do not know how to ask for anything.