I’ve made it. I am stronger than ever and one of the luckiest people on Earth. I got here because God never left my side – even when I tried to push him away. I am blessed to be able to have a two way conversation with the Lord; to share an exchange and not just pray to a silent presence. Many will struggle to understand that statement – distracted by one way prayers and expectation. Sometimes, all you have to do is talk and then pause long enough to listen. I paused. I listened. And I heard, as I have always heard, God speaking, saying exactly what I needed to hear.
I’ve made it and I am unstoppable.
I am on vacation on a Greek island with relatives. We have been here for four days and I have been lumbered with endless stress, horrible ill-health and pointed reminders of my inescapable worthlessness. From being treated like gutter trash by my own flesh and blood to having to justify why I am even included on this trip, this ‘vacation’ has opened my eyes to how little I will ever matter in this world.
I can’t help thinking that I should perhaps drown myself when no-one else is looking. What’s the point of continuing an existence that no-one cares for – not even myself?
What is the point to any of this? What, for pity’s sake, is this thing anyway? It’s not living. It’s not fun. It’s not necessary. It’s not healthy, happy nor even slightly curious. None of this – none of me – really matters because I could never, ever, possibly mean a thing. To anyone.
What am I doing here?
And the winner is… The Forgiven One. The evil backstabber can be crowned victorious for destroying what was left of my lowly life. The repercussions of his deceitful wickedness continue unchallenged, even after so many years.
My relationship with my family is dead. My father has asked me to leave home and never come back. And it’s about time. I simply couldn’t forgive my parents for producing a worthless child that would only grow up to be humiliated by The Forgiven One. Living together has been agony for all of us and I resent my birth. I have started to hate my family and I now realise that The Forgiven One is far from forgiven. I loathe his being more than ever and I care little for his welfare.
In fact, all I seem to feel these days is hurt, hate and loneliness. I have found myself increasingly isolated from all those I once unconditionally loved. Funnily enough, during this time last year, I thought I was on my way to worthiness, acceptance and positivity. I thought The (Un) Forgiven One was genuinely eager to be friends and felt guilty for his wrong-doing… providing, at last, that elusive stamp of approval which others so freely enjoyed. It transpired that this promise was just another lie – another opportunity for the evil monger to humiliate my being and laugh at my expense. I should have known better, really, but there you have it: I am a perpetual loser and a worthless human. It was always this way, no matter which path my feet would come to walk. I cannot reach a destination which does not exist. Worthiness is not in my blood; it is not in my DNA.
I am so desperately unhappy and ready to die. I cannot wait for Death to embrace me in its arms: a fleeting glimpse at how it feels to be wanted and worthy. I know it shall only be for a second, before everything fades to black and nothingness. Yet, that second of acceptance will be worth a lifetime of rejection – a second of compassion that is destined to become the highlight of a long and exceedingly miserable life.
Please, my Love; dear darling Reaper,
Slash your grim and deadly scythe,
Against my throat – then, slash it deeper,
I’ll not protest nor start to writhe.
Come, sweet Death! Be my soul’s keeper!
I wait impatiently for your haunting knell,
Creating, at last, a peaceful sleeper,
Free, forever, from this mortal shell.
I long to embrace you.
It wounds me that you run and hide.
What more is left, what can I do,
To become, at last, your eternal bride?
I am losing my voice; my ability to blog is dying. I cannot write as I used to and I feel suffocated and powerless. My soul feels dried up and the words I long to express are blowing as dust into the wind, impossible to save nor catch. I feel lost without my voice. I feel miserable.
I couldn’t have put it better myself:
I am done apologising, hiding the truth and respecting everyone else’s needs, conventions and wishes. My only responsibility is to be true to myself.
I know that I shall never be truly happy – the scars of the past still hurt and tug at my memory with a ferocity that genuinely instills fear. Yet, I can still rejoice – even momentarily – for the clarity these scars have brought to my being: I do not need to apologise for being damaged.
I am the one who is owed an apology. I am the one who deserves to hear “Sorry”.