trigger warning: this post contains brief mentions of self harm, abuse, anxiety, and depression.
i want nothing more than to write out the way the blood in my veins beckons me to spill it, and how i’ve kept from letting it flow out in all of it’s inky glory to this point in my life. it seemed to me, for some time, to be a logical thing to do to ease the war in my mind, but only made sense in the way that i needed to hurt physically as much as i was mentally.
see, i can’t say that my father abandoned me. he hadn’t- at least not physically. he was always there, like a ghost hiding in the corner, watching your every move, but this ghost was very real. this ghost sits in my chest to this day, reminding me of who i was, and who i killed along the way here, on my way home. this ghost chants haunting whispers every morning, telling me i will not make it through this day, that i will fall and lose everyone i love like the flesh of a burning church, that they will rot for my sins. that ghost ties me to my bed, crawls down my throat and tries to rush out again. it ties my hands behind my back, shackles my ankles to the floor so that i can’t move beyond these four walls.
i am comprised of broken pieces, like a mosaic of every shattered moment come together. i am like a clock that has lost its tick, a clock that longs to move forward, but whose hands have arthritis and don’t know how to move. there is an incessant tremble in my hands, one that rattles my bones until they clank together like metal spoons, or the beat of heavy boots on concrete floors. the sound of footsteps that pound across the floor, sounding like a rhythmic drum, coming to press the wood against my skin until i can’t stand any longer. the footsteps that make me hide in the corner and weep, clinging to the words of a song that my mother taught me to keep me calm in moments like this.
and now, footsteps cause me to run back to the corner. i listen, but they all sound like his footsteps. the ones that have loomed over my left shoulder like a cold chill in the winter for as long as i can remember. i run from everyone with rough hands and a deep voice. anyone who stands tall and cradles me in their arms. they are all him.
the words to the song of my mother stay with me. they are different now, not full of the promise dipped in grace that they once had been, but now full of an old familiarity that reminds me of a time much simpler, yet harder than this. so i am now, eleven years later, forgiving myself for letting these things go on. i forgive myself in the way i write, the way i string together a line of words, hoping, only hoping, that my stories can bring someone else as much comfort as they have brought me.
to the me that didn’t know before, i am sorry.
he is not in every person.
love, the sunless wanderer