To The Friend Of A Victim: What Her Silence Is Saying

My silence is screaming at you.

Please stop.

I love you, but you’re still talking. Talking at me. Talking through me. Talking about me.

I know exactly what you’re trying to do. I lived with the devil; I learned to see through the smoke screen. You’re no master.

You look at me, and see a broken woman. A victim. A recluse trapped in her past.

The solution? Social outings. Cheering up. Letting me know you understand.

You don’t.

I refuse to move on. It’s not a solution. It’s an escape.

You want me to take a scalpel to my history. Remove the tumor that you see. I can return to normal; the me that existed before he ruined everything.

That’s how you think this works.

Stop giving credit to him for the woman I’ve become. He wasn’t a cancer. He didn’t ruin me. I’m not a victim. Nor am I a survivor.

I didn’t stop becoming my own person when he entered my life. He didn’t make me a generic statistic.  I’m not a label.

I am hurting. In ways I don’t even know, let alone understand. Don’t tell me you know how I feel. In fact, don’t tell me anything.

I have questions. They won’t make any sense to you.

I have doubts. They will seem ridiculous to you.

I have fears. Fears that would scare you.

I am not broken because he changed me, and changing back won’t fix me.

This. Right here. Right now. This confused, stubborn, quiet woman is who I am. Your cheering up missions won’t change that. It’s not that I quit enjoying life. I just enjoy it differently.

I enjoy solitude. Depth. Honest truths. Beautiful details. Harsh realities.

I have developed a compassion you cannot comprehend. You believe you’re the one in the position to understand. Yet, that’s what proves you don’t.

I still love you. I love that you try. I love that you’re still here. I’m not angry, I’m just tired of being alone in my realization of who I am.

Please listen. Stop talking, and listen. I am waiting for you to be strong. I want you to know it will hurt you. It will be ugly. I have learned a raw honesty, and you will have questions. Questions you never considered to be unknowns.

I will not chase you. I will not force you. I will not manipulate you. Come to me only when you’re ready; when you’re ready to accept that who I’ve become is not the result of damage.

Until then, I will wait.

Silent.

 

 

*What is your silence saying?  Comment below.

Said Every Blogger, Ever

Eye-catching statement that piques your interest; controversial and bold.

Just kidding!  I’m a really friendly blogger.  Plus, I have an awesome personality, and I have a really unique perspective on that statement- you’ll see.

I hope you’re still reading this.

See, I have a horrible day job, and the people I work with are assholes.  This blog is my pipe dream.  I secretly hope that one day, a famous publisher like you will search Google for amazing undiscovered bloggers, and there I’ll be.

You will notice my truly unique talent.  My style will absolutely wow you into contacting me.  After all, my content is engaging and informative.

I will get paid for blogging.  Something I’ve done will go viral, and I’ll be famous.

Book deal.

Yes, I’ll actually commit enough time to finish a book.  People totally want to read about my daily routine.  My life experiences are unique!  (Check thesaurus for “unique”- overused!)  Scratch that… sui generis.  My life is sui generis.

See, I’m intelligent as hell.

Plus, I’m ballsy.  By now, this post is basically forcing you to notice me.  After all, nobody has the skills I have.  I’m a golden goose, man.

You want serious?  I can do that too.

“And there, within the satire, dwelt the truth.  Her heart laid bare beneath an honest facade.  Every self-doubt glazed with humor.  That’s the way it had to be.  Without fear, her style was simply words.”

If that didn’t seal it, I’m not sure what will.  You might as well quit reading.  That last bit took every ounce of creativity I had left.  I’ll need eight cups of coffee just to replace it.

You still there?

You’re a rebel.  Nice.  That means you’re willing to take risks.  We would work well together.  You should sign me.

Or at least follow me.

Tweet me.

Like me.

Something!

Now I sound like I’m begging.  I’m sorry.  I’ll wrap this up.

Amazing, ironic concluding sentence.

Sui generis, man.

Sui generis.

I Raped Myself

He said it, so it must be true.

Everything he said was true.  Nobody else liked me.  Nobody else could love me.  Nobody else saw me as worthy.

“Do what I tell you, or else.”

The or else was a scary thought, so I did what I was told.

He paid for my lunch.  He drove me around.  He did me favors.  So, I owed him.

He never let me forget it, either.  I tried to leave.  I tried to get out of his mandated obligations.  I tried to just disappear, and hope he would forget me.

Sometimes, I thought it was working.  I could walk by him, and he wouldn’t acknowledge me.  He wouldn’t even give me that look of disgust.

Did that make me free?

I wasn’t sure.  Before I had a chance to understand true freedom, he was back.  He apologized his way back into power.  He disguised his dictatorship as democracy.

I bought my own lunch one day.  I realized how little I paid for it when I used money.

I asked for help.  More like, a definition.  I was told that I deserved my situation.  I was told there was no definition.  I was given the “get up and move on” speech.

Did everybody agree that I was worthless?

Or, did my own belief in my worthlessness give others the right to treat me that way?

When he said I owed him, I paid.  The payment felt exactly like or else.

He doesn’t deserve my favors.

I buy my own lunch now.

 

~Post from 2014.  In response to a prompt.

Dear Writers,

Blogs are outdated.

I know!  What idiocy; to begin my first article on my new blog with such a statement.

However, if my proclamation is, indeed, true, nobody shall have the opportunity to point it out.

Now, should it ring false, the following paragraphs will be held irrelevant.

And yet, the writer writes.

What I have learned in previous failed blogs and rejected freelance submissions, is that a successful writer is simply one who writes.  Financial gain is not the defining standard of success.  Many artists were long-dead before their work attracted any monetary attention.

Lose-lose situations is what drives the creativity of a writer.  The starving artist draws passion from a hunger for beauty.  The author gleans inspiration from the drama surrounding loss.

We live in a constant state of conflict.  The threat of losing something -anything- cultivates the desire to build upon the impending emptiness.  It’s what fulfills us.

Failure and rejection simply indicate an imperfect work.  For a writer- trivial.  Fixable.  We write on.

The only true failure a writer faces is to put down the pen.  Lift your fingers from the keys.  Walk away from the stories, and be content with the normalcies of life.