Do I belong here? I can’t tell.
When you’re young, you’re so sure about things even when life is full of uncertainty. And now that I’m old, I’m so unsure even though most things in my life are certain.
Can I still use abuse as an excuse for the things I do? The way she touched me, over a decade ago, still fueling this insecurity? The way he bruised me, all those years ago, still fueling this hatred? I grew up. I thought I was grown up. What the fuck does that even mean?
I used to want people to hurt me I think. It was all I knew and my body ached for touch, even if it burned and stung. And my mind longed for thoughts of fear and worry. But I don’t want that anymore. I don’t desire that, anymore.
I want joy and peace and to be able to really breathe without bracing for impact from the next traumatic thing that’s going to happen to me.
My choices are better. They should be promoting a healthier, happier, better version of me. But what the fuck does that mean? I don’t care to give into the idea of constant self discovery. I know who I am, who I can be, who I’m not, who I want to be. But still, I’m like this.
I’m not dead inside. I’m full of passion and pride and wants and desires. What for you ask? That’s the part that makes me tired.
I’m stable. I do what I need to do. I choose things that I should choose. But my heart hurts. And even when it doesn’t hurt, it’s not healing. If I don’t heal, if I don’t change, if I don’t know.
What. Is. The. Point. Will someone tell me I belong?
Do I belong? I can’t tell.