November 29, 2019 (raw)

It’s almost Christmas time. By this time of the year, I’d be so excited and prancing around with lightness in my heart. But tonight, I feel nothing but heaviness. It all started with the explosive behaviours that bears a bit of weight each time it happens. But combined, it’s a weight I am not sure I’m strong enough to support.

She is so self absorbed in her own world of her disease that she sees nothing but her own despair. She’s held her own pity parties for over eleven years now and somehow it still doesn’t get old. She doesn’t see or understand her own selfishness–yet sometimes she admits to her own behaviour and their impact. She time travels often and hangs her regrets on her sleeve. Any conversation you start ends with her illness. I can’t stand it.

She soaks in her own misery, allowing for the anger and sadness to simmer for weeks. Then she’ll explode; the emotions manifest in tremors, gasps for air and hitting her head against the wall. She mutters words incomprehensible to anyone else. Suddenly her tough exterior is knocking on my door for help. My bedroom door hangs an invisible “therapist” sign–but I don’t get paid for it. She doesn’t know how to navigate her own emotions and lets it consume her. She tells me she holds it in. I told her I felt it coming because she has been bitchy and has not said one word or offered a helping hand–ever. Her selfishness blinds her ability to be kind, to offer help and give anything but a foul mood.

He’s had it. His rage makes him run away from his family. He feels depressed and burnt out. I don’t blame him. But I do. You blame your family for your unhappiness because you don’t know how to deal with your own mental health. You seek every opportunity to run.
Run, keep running.
Do you know how much your misery hurts me? I instinctively feel the need to be extra kind and sickeningly sweet to avoid your temper. I’ve always been terrified of your rage. It’s always made me want to disappear because I felt like it was my fault. Always. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong but I feel like it’s my fault. Maybe it is my fault. I will never blame you though. Your upbringing made you hard. You don’t show the soft edges and you care through action.

I feel so emotionally vulnerable. I don’t know what being strong feels like when I am simply pretending to be fine. I want to love with all my heart but my body won’t let me. I want to smile and melt away the sadness that covers my family like thick layers of dust on furniture. I learn to create boundaries but once I create habits of self-care, I begin to feel like I’m cheating from my familial responsibilities. Will I ever escape this web of guilt? Will I be able to define my life, apart from them? I am tired. I don’t know who to turn to in times of hurt. I taste those moments where I am free of this hurt. I cherish them and inspire me to keep believing because one day, it will come true. I will feel healthy and loved.

But for now, let me embrace my vulnerability.

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