I carry a guilt I can’t explain in just one word. This single picture above speaks volumes to me, I’ve listened to it exactly three times.
My mothers not dead, nor is she dying, this isn’t that kind of guilt. I have survivors guilt and grief, over someone who still exists.
My guilt centers around abandonment and how I abandoned my parents and two of my siblings.
My guilt swirles into self-punishment because I really think I have the right to be happy and not abused.
I hate that I cry over something I did. I made it happen. It’s my fault these things are happening to me.
I have guilt over knowing each one has a mental illness that’s gone unchecked and I helped keep it quiet for the sake of my family staying ‘normal.’
I’m sad because I knew it wasn’t normal but my mind came to cope and expect hate from everyone. I knew better, but I felt I shouldn’t expect any better.
I mourn that I still care, when it’s been shown in the time stamp above, just how much I’m cared for back.
I let my tears fall unchecked, my sobs wreck my body and the items I clench in desperate pleading, as they fall into a Rubbermaid box so I can pack it up and try and forget. the images, the memories, the tears, smiles, laughter, and fear.
You see, pain, guilt, and grief is not linear.
But it lingers, triggering here and there, like today.
Name calling…
The word snowflake means more to me than what it does to most because the man I called my father would snidely call me one, would assume who I voted for then hold it over my head. He would try to insult me by calling out my religion, political view and personal beliefs.
When I lay it out I get why I felt zero closeness to my dad since the reign of Trump…it diminished quickly in 2020.
My parents taught us not to name call or bully others, they caused a ruckus with schools when we were bullied. Then later in life they bully us themselves.
So, with that, you broke me first.
It’s not my fault.
And I shouldn’t have guilt.
One day I hope to heal myself further.
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