The Hard Truth

I’m not as good as you think.  Actually, I’m probably a whole lot worse.  Of course, here you’ll probably say that I’m being melodramatic and over the top.  Sure.  You’re probably right.  You probably know more about me than I do.  I’m too stuck in my own pile of shit to see or think clearly.  Sucks to suck, I guess.  Will I surface?  Seems like every time I try I just end up digging deeper, fucking myself up more.  Can’t do anything right–never have, never will.  If you can’t tell, this isn’t really my night.

You know what happens when I come home?  It’s absolutely awesome all for about two or three days, and then it all goes to shit.  I end up in the same dark hell that I lived in my entire childhood–only worse, because I know what it’s like being fairly self-sufficient, confident, content.  I come home, and I feel like shit.  I’m useless, worthless.  An emotional wreck and a waste of space.  I cost too much to maintain, better to just throw out the baby that drowned in her bathwater.  At school, I may not have a social life.  I may not have awesome stories to tell.  But dammit, I’m working towards my dream of one day encouraging others to tell their story, to fight for it, to dream big and chase after it because they’re loved, dammit.  They’re worth it.  And I believe that about myself, when I’m at school.  I’m someone to fight for, someone to love, someone who matters.

The are four people who live in my house.  It seems I am the only one of the four who feels the tension.  At the very least, I feel the tension more deeply than anyone else.  I spend most of my time shrinking into myself, compressing into invisibility, terrified that I will say the wrong thing, make the wrong move.  I feel the weight of my dad’s dissatisfaction.  I feel the strain of my mother’s attempts to fix everything and everyone and do all the work.  I feel my brother’s rage and irritation and annoyance.  And with all of that, I’m far too afraid to feel anything at all.  At home, I don’t feel anything.  I can’t.  I have moments, like tonight, where I might get frustrated, but no more.  I simply blame myself for the faults, the problems, the mistakes, the everything, and set about trying to remove myself from the picture.  If I don’t feel, I’m not adding to the ammunition.  If I don’t speak, nothing can be held against me, used against others, twisted this way or that.  At home, it is simply better if I don’t really exist.  I’m no daughter, no friend, simply a docile doormat.

I’m convinced that nothing or no one makes me feel like killing myself more than my family.  It might seem like an overstatement.  It’s not.  There’s no other time when I feel more like a failure than when I can feel myself shrinking in, shriveling up, martyring myself for those who don’t give a shit about how much I work to keep things in balance.  They don’t care that I fight to neutralize every situation, don’t care that I’m on constant alert to their emotions, adjusting to prevent making further waves.  I can’t fight against it–or at least, in my 20 years, I haven’t learned how.  No, I just turn into a petrified child.  In essence, once again, I fail.

I was once asked how I would define my life before and after abuse.  There really isn’t a before and after, for me.  There are the two sides, the two threads of my life that intertwine so terribly beautifully.  I am a failure.  That’s the black side–failure.  Worthless.  Useless.  Burdensome.  This is the girl who doesn’t matter, who can’t get a job, who doesn’t have within herself a single solid backbone.  No spine, just a doormat who lets herself be trampled by everyone, including herself.  She’s as much dirt as is the color of her skin, as filthy as trash.  But I am also Beloved.  That is the purple side–beloved.  Whole.  Pure.  She is a story, a soul filled with a fiery passion that pumps her heart and binds her bones.  She is a raging fire, a strong pillar, the weathered face of a cliff that is resilient against death and addiction and abuse and fear.  She is loved, cherished by the God of the Universe. 

Which am I tonight?  Both.  I am always both.  I am always the black, always the purple.  If you want to know what shade of purple, look at the top of this blog.  Something along those lines.  See, my purple is no bright or soft lavender.  No–it’s as deep as my scars, as vivid as my experiences.  It’s a hard-won color, borne through my struggles.  My purple comes from my black.  The two cannot be separated from each other, just as I am always a failure and always Beloved.  My struggles become my beauty.  I am a warrior only because of my wounds.  This is the life I live, the story I have to tell.  It’s not pretty, not G-rated, not anything you’d read in a greeting card.  I’m living a raw existence, but it’s a truthful one.


A Beloved Failure,

The Scribbler 


About thefreescribbler

My life is one of words. I am a scribbler, whose thoughts are best expressed through adjectives and phrases and punctuation marks. I would not go so far as to call myself a writer, although many would disagree. I’m characterized more by my unfinished works and half-embodied ideas, scraps of stories and parts of poems. Maybe one day I’ll be a writer, but I’m okay with being a scribbler right now. It fits my personality and style, and best expresses my aims. I’m not trying to create some lofty version of literature. I’m just a kid blogging about life. View all posts by thefreescribbler

3 responses to “The Hard Truth

  • JMC813

    Purple happens to be the color of Royalty friend. And it is very often bordered by black to show it’s immense beauty. Without black the purple is meaningless. Royalty is nothing without the black reality of hard lessons, fear, despair, turmoil, grief, strife, and hardship. Keep fighting like a warrior through the black so that the purple my shine through with stunning radiance and eternal hope. Be well and keep inspiring.

  • Kady Barnes

    Hey there. Have you ever been to the Vagina Monologues? I ask because there was a monologue titled Shrinking Women, or something like that, that this reminds me of. You said you feel like you’re not worth what you cost at home, that you shut down thoughts and emotion because if you don’t say anything they can’t use it against you, and that you feel like you martyr yourself for your family. I don’t think it’s melodramatic, I think it’s very real and horribly common. In the monologue, a young woman describes watching her mother give everything she could to her husband and taking up as little space as possible, eating and saying little so as to leave the food and air and opinions to others. I don’t know where it comes from exactly to tell you what to avoid but I know it can be helpful to know you’re not alone in these emotions, maybe. You could look up the monologue if you want, or any of the others in that series, they’re all very moving.
    I want to ask if you have to go home? Or at least, do you have to go home that often, or for that long? I don’t know what your situation is but I’m kind of guessing it’s college and home for holidays/summer? Do you live in a dorm otherwise? Perhaps you could instead next year rent an apartment with a friend or few so that you can stay over summer, or see if you can stay in the dorms, even if you have to take summer classes. If that’s not possible, do what you can to arrange trips or stays with other people. You said you don’t have much of a social life at school, but maybe you can pick a select couple of people to get to know better, or go to new places. I know it’s much, much harder done than said but it’s worth a try. You could see about getting together with people from the GCN group for a road trip or meet or something. It would remind you that you’re a great, worthy, and loved person to these people, regardless of how your family treats you.
    Family is family, and no matter how horrible they are we still have a special connection to them. Sometimes I wish we didn’t. I don’t know if you desire to leave them, but they aren’t healthy for you. Something I’ve been trying myself is attempting to feel in a more casual way about my family. Kind of like treating them like friends instead. If you don’t like your friends, you don’t hang out with them, you don’t care about their opinions or judgements. If you live with them, they’re like crappy roommates you have to deal with. Like I said, I know that no matter what they’re still family and it doesn’t really work quite like that, just deciding not to care, but again, it’s worth a try if it might help.
    You seem really in touch with how you feel, like you seem to understand yourself and that’s really wonderful. I’m glad you have an outlet like this blog. Keep your head up.

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