I remember asking them to teach me about sex. They recoiled and rambled off some bull shit excuse about who else’s responsibility that was, but I was forbidden to ask them yet.
But they can’t talk about it, because no one ever taught them how to talk about it.
No one told them how it worked, what it felt like, and what they should expect
And when they got there
It was not what I thought it would be and it did not mean what I thought it meant.
You can’t talk about it because it hurt you.
But what we don’t realize is that in not talking about it, we’re dooming the ones we love to the same fate.
“Awkward” is the word we give to the parts of the universe that make us uncomfortable for all our myriad reasons.
“Awkward” is the word we give to the parts of ourselves that make us uncomfortable for all our myriad reasons.
Those reasons are both called “Trauma”, and to resolve it, we must stare them in the eye and call them by their name. We inform them that they have been caught and will no longer contribute to the choices we make; that they may pull our strings no more.
But how we bribe ourselves into listening to these demons’ voices is in exchange for protection from ever facing those horrors again. We grant them rights to our mind, in exchange for a little peace.
These demons are cunning. They know that they need only cover our eyes. We refuse to see these perpetual horrors and in turning a blind eye we doom ourselves to repeat them… And the demons feast on our perpetual misery and they spread like an infection.
Discomfort as our guide, we must let our fears lead us to the holes these demons keep in the back of our minds; to root them up, to meet their eye, until we watch our mask dissolve. We remember their true faces, their true names and we dismiss them.
Then we regain a little space for ourselves, and repeat:
“I am not my demons!”
About chrooth
No this isn't some sort of midlife crisis thing. I'm just adapting. Like anyone else on here, or who does this, I believe I am writer. Unlike most others, I believe I am a writer because I have always written. Long story short, I was a really weird kid and sometimes it just felt like the only place I could turn for some solace and empathy was an empty page. I've always been a melodramatic writer and I've been really happy for a long time so I haven't felt the need to write but when I do... I have to. I basically live on the road, so my journal is hardly ever within reach, and when it is I convince myself that I'm too busy to make any time for it. So here I am, embracing the future, having acquired the journal that will follow me almost anywhere. I'm having one of those, "WHY DIDN'T I THINK OF THIS BEFORE!?" moments, and GOD after so long I can't tell you how good it feels to just let my mind spill through the tips of my fingers again. I suppose this would be an appropriate time to qualify both my ability and my intentions. I am not a good writer. I am told I have a strong tendency towards run-ons, I over punctuate, and I curse like a sailor. I can't spell for crap and especially while typing, I have a tendency to just leave words out. As I mentioned earlier this "blog" is meant as a replacement for my long treasured journal, which tends to imply a need for privacy. However, if you were to ever read my journal, you would eventually come across an entry musing over the purpose of a journal, wondering why they are written and kept in secret. I have no secrets. I had far too many secrets for far too long and I assure you, I have no more energy for them. Additionally, I can not properly conjure any feeling of being heard by manufacturing an imaginary personality that lives in a book and understands my words. So I write, and have always written, to you.
Thanks for reading it!
Chrooth 