Struggle

I hate myself. My looks, my body, my attitude... everything. I feel like a worthless piece of shit, talent-less. Pathetic. Unfortunately, this is an all to familiar thing for me. While these painful days of feeling like complete shit are less now, I used to feel this way all the time. Daily, even. You know how people talk about low self-esteem or self-worth, mine aren't low. They are non-existent. I've been broken down to nothing, and even though I have a supportive husband that tries his hardest to counter-act these negative self-thoughts. On days like these I still stall. No work gets done, I'm tired beyond belief, and all I want to do is hide from everyone and everything.

It's awful, and I don't wish it on anyone. It's difficult when your mind is your own worst enemy, but this isn't something that I was born with. I didn't pop out of my mom having these thoughts, and they didn't get this powerful all on their own. See, my childhood—my life, has been. . . Well, there are no words for it, and a writers gift of exaggeration couldn't create a backstory anymore horrifying than mine.

A lot of people have an awful past and they don't struggle like I do. In fact, I'm sure no two people struggle with a situation exactly the same. Everything is individualized, even our pain. But what makes mine different. . . What makes it so much more nightmarish is the person who wore me down. The woman who took an innocent child and reduced them to this. A shell of a human-being wallowing in self-pity and hatred for themselves. A personal everyone else loves and adores, and complements but only gets an awkward sensation that they are a fraud. A joke to the mass public, and that no matter what they do they will always be less than another human being.

My mother this to me. The woman who gave me life took it away and left me living in hell.

God, the number of times I've started a blog to help me vent these things is countless. I've even tried to write a book about my past, but organizing a life of mental, emotional, and physical abuse is difficult. Scratch that. It's near impossible.

So here I am, starting yet another blog to help me down a healing path—creating an outlet for all my hurt, and honestly this is the farthest I've ever gotten. Usually I chicken out before my first post, but not this time. While I might have days where I feel like a single cell organism crawling around in scum, there is a growing part of me that wants to do away with these days. To free myself of such awful thoughts, and that's what this blog is for. Yes, it's to vent and I will probably only post when I need it—when my thoughts and memories overtake me, and that's okay.

This is my chance to put a story out into the world that is raw, dented, and broken just like me. It'll come organically as my nightmares and thoughts do. Some topics maybe hard to read, but you don't have to read them. In fact, I won't care if a single person ever sees this because this isn't for anyone else but me.

This blog is my voice and my stand against the abuse I suffered. It's my sounding board, and I'm not doing it for recognition or sympathy. I'm doing it because I matter—I matter to myself enough to speak out about the things that happened to me, and my voice won't be silenced anymore. Not by my mother, not social expectations, or by my own fear. This is me, being me, and dealing with all the messed up shit that happened in my thirty-some years of life.

#IMatter

~Jax~