Sometimes the despair and destruction and chaos inside is more real than the conversation or situation that I am in. To the point where I forget things because of the devastation that I am going through at that particular time. Such is the story of Friday/Saturday.
I know it was bad, horrible, I know I bared my soul, but I cannot remember most of it.
I accept the fact that I am defective – damaged. I accept that within myself. I have for a very long time. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it. It is so easy for me to pick out the negative aspects of who I am. I have this very jaded thought process. I over analyze everything imaginable and lets not begin to talk about the paranoia that shows up just as my mania begins.
I always feel like I am not worth fighting for. That I am nothing but a burden on those around me. I tend to make that decision for them, instead of letting them form their own ideas of who I am or whether I am worth it.
I am an insignificant speck of a being that is defective in every way. But unlike a defective item you purchased at your local store and returned for a refund, there are no returns on people, no refunds. My Jaded mind tells me that even if I could be returned, no refund would be given, after all; I am worthless.
Nor can I turn back the hands of time and re-do things to change past mistakes into rewarding and enriching experiences. I do often wonder what would happen if I were able to turn back those hands, dialing time back and having a do over. How far back would be far enough to make a change?
Do I go back a few days to when I freaked out while drinking and change it? Maybe I should go back a few weeks try to head off the mania before it began. A few months…..oh yeah I could make a change there I wouldn’t have went so long between therapy sessions. A few years, oh the changes I would make there. I cannot even begin to explain.
Where would I want to start over?
My mind was screaming while I was writing that last sentence, a ton of mental and emotional pain running through my body, almost to the point of physical pain. My mind is screaming for me to go back to when I was 6 and scream bloody hell for someone to help me.
But then the other side of my jaded analytical mind begins to wonder. If I could change the past would I still be me when I got here? Or would I be a completely different person then I am now? Would this outcome that I have had in life still be the same? Would I be stronger? Maybe I will be weaker. Maybe I would be even more insignificant than I am now.
Then a strange question creeps in and stops me mid thought. Would I want to change who I am today? Part of me is screaming YES. Because maybe it would make me a better person. Maybe I would not have mental health issues if my past were not clouded with so much pain and hurt. Maybe I would have been able to make better choices.
How would changing my past define me as a person?
But I realize that if I would lose the things in my life that I love and cherish the most – my husband – my kids – then no I would not change my path. I would take the path all over again just to make sure that these very special people were a part of my life.
I realize that I have had rough times. I also understand that these experiences have played a big part in shaping who I am today. Some of these things I might not like so well, but there are things that I can live with. Maybe these experiences are what makes me write, maybe they are some of my driving force.
I have had this mask covering my face and a wall surrounding myself for a – Very.Long.Time. I was only a little girl when I began building up the wall and learning how to put the mask on.
6 years old with brown curly ringlets and big blue innocent eyes. But the innocence was lost in time. All it took was a few weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds.
I learned very quickly that I needed to build a foundation to support my wall. So I began pouring cement that hardened my soul. Once the cement was dry I began laying the brick… layers and layers of brick. Each layer hiding me further and further inside myself. A layer to hide the pain,another to hide the shame, another to hide the guilt, one to hide the secrets and another to keep the memories out.
The mask was a much different design. It was one that covered the tears, and hid the hurt in my eyes. It hid depression, it hid thoughts of despair. It kept this little upturned smile on my face. You know the one? The one with the corners of your mouth barely upturned so that people think you are fine. The one where someone asks “How are you today?” and you know they really do not want to know the in depth answer that you could give them. So instead you shrug a little, smile and say “I’m fine”.
Once and a while a crack would develop in the wall, but instead of a warm light shining in all I could see was more darkness, all I could feel was cold.
I would quickly repair and build the wall back stronger then it was before. Reinforcing it with layers upon layers.
So I begin to realize that I am not necessarily protecting myself. I am just layering these things on, one on top of the other. And you know what? All I am doing is suffocating myself.
It is like laying in a dark, deep, cold pit. And someone is continually shoveling in shovel fulls of dirt. After a while the pressure starts to become too much to bare.
I have instilled both of these coping mechanisms from such a young age that often times I forget how to open up and let people in. I tend to be skeptical of new friendships, afraid for people to know who I really am, afraid to trust.
But in reality I know that I have to let some people in.
Everyone needs someone.
Everyone needs that one person who is there to help, to listen, to console.
Sometimes I take a layer of bricks down and slowly poke my head up to test the waters so to speak. To see if I can let my guard down for just a moment. There are times I regret peeking out. But still there are times when I realize that I can peek out a little further because the person who is peeking back in at me understands – for they too have been where I am.