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Split-Ends

As the survivor of a stultifying, vicious childhood riddled with mental, emotional, physical and sexual abuse…I found my hiding place within my imagination.

And wow, what the mind can do to save itself is baffling. I find it endlessly hard to believe. But here I am, 28 years old standing before the opening doors of closeted memories. Memories worse than my nightmares, worse than what I had thought I escaped. Memories I thought I killed and buried have been dug out of their graves.

This ‘process,’ if you will, is impalpably difficult to explain to anyone who isn’t a professional trauma expert of some sort. But to put it simply; I have been living as the phlegmatic simulacrum (emotionless representation) of my own life. Strategically hiding really scary shit from myself.

And this is why my imagination is my hometown. It’s the place I run to when I am afraid, or scared and hurting in one way or another. In my hiding place I have written odes and sonnets to the skeletons in my closet.. I have created art and stories to translate the message of my obfuscated dreams.

Somewhere along my treacherous road to mental freedom, I lost something. And that something was once someone. Me, my emotions. For nearly my entire life, I have a bystander to and delegate for my feelings. The ones that rage inside me behind a trap door.

I suffer from an alexithymia of the voice, but not of the pen. My emotions are expressed only through writing and art. Like I said, my imagination is my hometown, my playground.

I am hoping that the intensive therapy I’m going through helps me. This is such a difficult and lonely journey, one I would wish on no one. It is isolating and frustrating. Most people will never experience the terrors I have, and many have never even heard of such fomenting, obscure and cruel abuse being inflicted upon children.

Therefore, finding a friend to lean on (besides your damn therapist) during this horrible time is crucial and…seemingly impossible. At least for me. But at least I’m reaching out…that’s a start.

I’ll end this with a poem.


SPLIT-END

Bottomed out on black teeth
Teach me how
to start a fire

Wires through my skin
I am just trying to sleep
like a bastard in the womb

Showing all the split ends
with a basket and a broom
(get out of my room)

I get drunk off my dreams

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