I am trying so hard to hold it in. Trying to keep everything held together. To not show how week I am or how much pain is there. I am trying not to cry to show any emotion or reaction. I am trying to be strong for no one but me.
I am scared. I know why and I am scared to admit it. I hold everything together so that when no one is around I can cry. I am scared of lashing out. Showing any emotion makes me worry I will say the wrong thing. Cracks lay beneath the surface of my already damaged soul.
Divorce, fighting, cuts, screams, lashing out. Each time worst than the last. Always in the shadows never in the fight. I watch as my sister goes on another one of her rampages.
I wait for the clear sign of the end of a fight. Her door slams shut and I hear her sobbing voice through the thin wall that separates her room from mine. I know she is talking to dad about what our parents are doing wrong. I imagine my dad. Standing with the phone to his ear. Trying to calm his eldest daughter. Promising that he will make it better, and he does. He makes her feel alright, for a while.
I never know what is going to set her off but I can tell when it is coming. She won’t wait to answer. I listen for the second pause and wait. I know what is coming. First she will lean back and cross her arms clenched fist on each side. She will speak with a tremble, not noticeable to my parents. She will say something for me. Speak as if I had told her something even though I probably never did. Then slowly she will talk her face getting redder, her eyes tearing up. She will cry staining her face then she will hear what my parents have to say. If she isn’t worn out already she will argue some more. Then after ten minutes or so she will sit quietly. All this time I will sit there. Waiting for it to be over. Hoping that maybe she will listen.
My parent split when I was little. No sympathy is what I would like. I don’t want anyone to think any less of me for having two homes and three parents. The divorce broke my sister more than me. First she hated my dad. Now she hates my mom and step-dad. I wish she didn’t. I wish she saw that when she is mad at them she takes it out on me.
We have a dog, six months old. He bit me hard. He created a deep cut along the inside of my middle finger as well as a puncture. I am so mad at him. I love him though. I cried when he bit me. I was alone though. I didn’t let anyone see me cry.
I don’t like to show emotion. I don’t like to show I am weak. It makes me feel horrible. I know that everyone I know cares about me. I know that I shouldn’t put myself down. The thing is, I know what I say will make it better.
I write when I am sad. I write about a happier place. One without the damage or pain. One with the hope that I wish would show up. No fights occur in my dream-land. No pain or torture.
Or I write about what is going wrong. I describe the hurt. I print out what I wrote or just tear it out of the notebook and rip it to shreds. I don’t let anyone see I am weak. I don’t let people know my pain. The only reason I post this is because I know no one knows the real me. They don’t know that I am stronger on the outside. They aren’t judging me on my looks or voice. They are only judging what I write. I wish I had a real person to say this to. One that will sit there and listen and not say anything. Just listen to my tears, my shaky voice as I try to hold back the tears so that they won’t feel bad for me. Hold me when I finish crying and just sit there. Not say anything. Not try and fix the patches or solve the problem for me. I wish I knew someone who handed me the tissue and left me to cry in their arms. I wish they were here with me as I write this. Holding me close as my teary eyes blur my vision. Not reading what I am writing but studying my face. Cracks below the surface won’t go away but for once I wish that person could say, “I am here, don’t be afraid. I have you, and I will never let go.
