i’ve never been good with starting journals
i always feel stupid, like the protagonist of a cringey coming-of-age film holding a pom pom pen
there’s always an urge to write something like “hello journal, it’s me, but of course you already knew that” or “hey future me, life still crappy?”
i dont know why i make a joke of it in my head, why i belittle myself for trying to journal
i dont know why im always so hard on myself
but then again, i do know dont i? the list is long
bpd, depression, anxiety, abandonment issues, self esteem issues, trust issues, daddy issues, mommy issues, anger issues, all of the issues
its all there.
ive always pushed myself down into second, third, fourth place. i was taught to. im the fat, funny, annoying best friend to the main character. im there for comic relief, for the viewers to laugh at and be thankful that they’re nothing like me, for the main character to learn from my sad sad life.
god this sounds pathetic.
i hate myself for writing this shit.
i liked myself once, i think.
i like to believe that i used to at least
my memories are so fucked up that i have no idea for sure
i must not have always been like this, right?
i must have been happy once, carefree, content with myself and my place in the world.
when did that first change?
trauma changes you. it messes with you.
it also doesn’t help if said trauma comes from manipulative, gaslighting, cruel people.
i don’t know which memories or real or fake any more, they made sure of that.
it is so devastating to have someone ask what they did to me, and im not even sure of the answer
a lifetime of this crap can make anyone think they made it all up
did i misread it all? misremember?
did she really abuse me or am i blowing it out of proportion?
everyone else acts like they had no idea it was happening, so was it?
but then i think of the things i know to be true
how scared i was because she told me no one else would ever love me, or stay with me, or tolerate me, or listen to me, or want me. but even she didnt.
how i was terrified to speak up because she might hit me.
how she would slap my self-harm marks and punch me because it “helped me”.
how if i spoke up, she would threaten to leave me.
how if i made her upset, she would threaten to kill herself.
how she told me if she did, it would be my fault.
how she would tell me i was the only person who could save her.
how she would ignore me and pretend i didnt exist.
how she would yell and scream and hit and scratch.
how she would tell me she hated me.
how she would tell me i was worthless.
disgusting.
useless.
how scared i was.
this is too much.
this is enough for tonight.
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