A very personal post

I feel the need to write this. It may be impulsive and it will be very personal.
Everything that happens inside of me, feelings, emotions, I need to deal with it on my own. More importantly, I never find the words to say what is wrong.
As a teenager, I cut myself. It was my outlet and my way to let go of the emotional hurt I felt. I grew up in a broken home, with a very ill mother. Her sickness and the way I cared for her from a very early age on, made me the person I am today. With all the implications of her illness, I was never shown love or affection. I grew up in a household full of adults. Grandparents, aunt, uncles, my mom and my sister (three years older than I am). Love and affection was nothing shown in my family. I wasn’t hit or abused. Not physically, instead, I was ignored or yelled at when I did something wrong. From an early age on, it was expected that I help my mom. My earliest memory goes back to when I was four years old and helped my mother with her daily hygiene… I won’t go into details. Suffice to say, no child that young should need to do these things for their parents. I was bribed into it and I was told if I refused or reluctantly helped, that I didn’t love her enough. And since I loved my mom, I did as I was told. And I broke inside, bit by tiny bit.
Emotions were bottled up and I found a friend in music. It was my safe haven, somewhere where I could flee from my daily life. I never had many friends, I wasn’t allowed to go out and I wasn’t allowed to bring anyone home.
I was thirteen when I first cut. I never hid my wounds. Nobody ever asked about them. Cutting was like a valve to release the pressure I felt. In a way, it felt as if my skin was too tight and when I cut, I fit in again. Little things could trigger it. I remember one particular cut that my grandma saw. I remember how she laughed and told me that if I wanted to kill myself, I should cut my wrist. No help there. It was a cruel thing to say, but I was used to it. Back then, I felt alone. Like a freak. An outsider on every front.

Despite it all, I was a rebel. I started to meet with the wrong people, fell in love with the wrong people and saw them destroying themselves with drugs. I never did anything. Was I a coward or too headstrong? I don’t know. I simply didn’t like to see them lose control and I didn’t want to see it happen to myself. Drugs were never an option for me. If it had been, I would not be here right now. I would have died with my friend. (he died of an overdose in 2012). I didn’t go home during the days anymore. I went to school and wouldn’t go back home until it was evening. I would do my chores at home and hide in my room with the music turned up. I wrote pages and pages in my diary and I also started to write poetry. It became an outled and I stopped cutting. I simply stopped. It was hard at first. To take the pen instead of the cutter. But I succeeded. I was proud of myself, but I had no one to share that feeling with. It’s the story of my life.

Looking for love and affection. It never stopped.

I met the man I married when I was sixteen (almost seventeen). He lived a life very different from the one I lived (and was six years older too). In a way, he saved me.
I went to school and started a specialization, all without the support of my family. They didn’t care as long as I was there to help with this and that. In their minds, I never missed anything. I had clothes, a roof over my head and monthly pocket money. They didn’t understand that I needed more. I was told that I was/am egoistic and self-centered. Maybe they were/are right. I finished school in 2004. I was the first and to this date only one of my family, who went to school and got a degree that allowed them to go to university. I had plans. But then I became pregnant with my first child. In 2005 I gave birth to a beautiful boy. I love him to bits. I moved in with his father and for the first time in my life, I didn’t need to take care of my mom. I now had my own little family. I was devastated with feelings of guilt and I was told more than once that I destroyed my family because I was so selfish and had a child. I was twenty-one. Old enough to make those decisions for myself. After my son’s birth, I fell into a deep hole. I cried a lot and I didn’t want to live anymore. I loved him, but it was not enough. I felt useless and worthless. Lonely too. I had 1 (one) friend and her life was very different from mine. She was single and worked and I was jealous of her. She was free, while I was still tied to someone. In hindsight, I know that I had postnatal depression. It took months to find a way out. But again, I did it on my own. I was a recluse. Gained a lot of weight, lost most of my sparse self-esteem and hid. More importantly, I didn’t talk about it. Again, words failed me. And reaching out was out of question. I was weak and frail, but I didn’t want to show it. There were times in my life, when I drove in my car – alone, and I wondered if I should just put my feet on the pedal and drive off the road or into the next wall. Of course I never did. I only ever had one car accident and that was when I thrashed a parked car’s side mirror when driving by. And rest assured, those thoughts are not in my mind anymore. But they were and I will not deny it.

Life went on for a couple of years. I found work and I liked it, but I never wanted to leave my child alone. I got married at twenty-four. I was with my partner for seven years then and I had told him that either we would marry or I would take the child and live a life on my own. It wasn’t my finest moment, but I felt like wasting my years with someone who didn’t show me that he cared. He cared. I just didn’t see it.
I became a mom for a second time and soon after that for the third time and I felt content. I didn’t work anymore and although I missed the freedom of it, I enjoyed being with my children and being there for them. I spoil them and show them how much I love them. Every day. I didn’t have the time to let my thoughts drift to dark places either, My sole preoccupation was to be the best mom I could be.
My life seemed to have turned around, until in 2011 something was triggered inside of me. To this day, I don’t know what it was. I began cutting again. I was twenty-eight. I didn’t do it often. Four times in all, but I did. And at that time, I realized that I had to do something. I had to work through my own emotional baggage. I began writing. Fiction and poetry. Nonfiction too. I shared it online. Shared many very personal things about me too.
I don’t know what I expected. I didn’t expect to find people who liked what I wrote and the way I wrote. I didn’t expect to find people who found my poems to be meaningful and powerful. It was a nice feeling. I felt valued and didn’t feel the need to hide my own emotional roller coaster anymore.
I never told my family about it and when I finally did, they laughed about it. Saying I wasn’t good enough anyway. To this day, none of them has read anything I have written. They can’t judge if I am good enough or not, but they do. I am different from them. That’s enough to judge me.
I just only wanted to be loved and be accepted for the damaged person I am.
There are still many days when I don’t feel appreciated and the internet has made me quite vain too. It build some of my long lost self-esteem, but easily destroys it too. There are days when I wake up and have sixty or more notifications on my phone.. I chose to share my writing on a site called Wattpad. (http://www.wattpad.com/writing_micqu). It’s a great site for immediate reactions to your writing. I need that. I need that immediate response. I share my poetry on here too, share the links, just like I will share this one too, on twitter and I get no reactions at all. That is when I feel unappreciated again. I support so many people and rarely feel that support in return. It’s not that I expect it, but it would be nice to be acknowledged. It would just be nice, that’s all.
Recently, I am much more in tune with my internal self. I know exactly when a bout of depression is lurking around the corner. I can feel it creeping up on me several days before it strikes. And when it happens, there is a wall that comes up. I write more poetry then and I can’t wrap my head around writing fiction. Which only makes it worse, actually. That writer’s block just pulls me under deeper. And I feel useless and untalented too. I often wonder why anyone should read anything I write. Whether if it’s a poem, a short story or my full length novels. The answer is, I don’t know. The answer is also, because they are good. Yes, my grammar lacks here and there, but I am improving every day. English was the fourth language I learned!

Last September, I was told to look into self-publishing, and I did. Between September and November 2014, I released three books. Self-published and it was a lot of work. They went through proofreading (and still have typos…) and they got reviews (good and bad), but I continued to write and post for free. Not long ago, I realized that once again, I had acted impulsively and although I was very proud about having published these books, they have strong characters and strong story-lines, I also realized that they need more work. I unpublished everything and I am on my way back to my roots.

Writing. It gave my life a routine and a direction. Music too. I spend way too much money on music and my shelves are packed to the brim with CDs, but I love it. I love it even more when the music touches me on a personal level and it doesn’t matter if the artist/band is famous or not. If I like it, I will buy it.

There are days when I want to scream and hide. I can’t because of the kids and my responsibilities. There are days, when I don’t want to get up and I want to sleep until the feelings and thoughts in my head stop torturing me. But it doesn’t happen. It’s a recent thing, but I learned to accept those phases. They are a part of me. They are a part of the person that I am.
I am starving for love and affection and I don’t see that change anytime soon. And even when I don’t feel good, I will not ask for help. I need to get it done on my own and at the same time, I wish someone would say that they know how I feel. Truth is, only I know how I feel and even while I write these many many words that probably will not be read, because I wrote them and nobody really cares about my thoughts and little hiccups, I cannot make you see inside my head. But I can maybe make you understand, why I am the person I am and how my mind works.
I was told that I am cold. I was told that I am strong. I even was told that I am amazing. I was told that I am too emotional and I was told that I am selfish. Maybe I am all of those things. In the end, the only thing that is real and true is that I am me. I am Cathy. I am flawed and damaged beyond repair. I am starving for something that I can’t accept, even if offered to me.
Under layers and masks, I am a woman (old or young, depending on the mood) with lots of thoughts on her mind. I am me. And I want you to love me.

Who’s that woman?

Who is that woman?
Her head is bowed and her hair hides some of her face.
She is short and overweight too.
But there is something more.

Who’s that woman?
There should be more than meets the eye.
A smile that makes lines appear around her eyes.
Maybe she is older than she looks.

Who’s that woman?
She’s dressed in black, but not her shoes and not her bag.
A yellow watch, orange headphones and purple canvas shoes.
It looks strange, but you shouldn’t judge.

Who’s that woman?
And what is she reading that makes her smile?
What is she scribbling with that fountain pen?
She’s filling a notebook with her words.

Who’s that woman?
Her dark eyes hide secrets.
Her arms tell stories too and she doesn’t cover them up.
It all adds to her mystery.

Who’s that woman?
I hear you ask.
There are many answers to that question and none of them is a lie.
If you’ll like her or not, that is a question I cannot reply.

Just Say No

You don’t like me
You don’t value me
You don’t share yourself
You don’t.
And I just say no.

You don’t protect me
You don’t talk to me
You don’t want to understand
You don’t.
And I just say no.

You don’t follow me
You don’t support me
You don’t laugh with me
You don’t.
And I just say no.

You don’t listen to me
You don’t kiss me
You don’t care anymore
You don’t.
And I just say no.

You will not change me
You will not find a way back
But if you do
I just say no.

darkness

darkness. It surrounds me. It pulls me deeper into the despair that is spreading inside my chest.

darkness. I will never find a way out and whenever I think that I see the light, it pulls me back inside.

darkness. Sometimes I run and I succeed in shaking it off. I can feel the light on my face and the serenity entering me. not for long.

darkness. it keeps me in its tight grasp and squeezes my skull. I hurt myself to feel the things I cannot see.

darkness. let me out. I want out. where’s the light switch?

Mirror mirror

Mirror mirror on the wall
Tell me what you see when you look at me, once and for all!
Not the externalities that everone sees
But the things that lie hidden beneath.

Mirror mirror on the wall
Who are the friends who pick up when I call?
The ones who read me like open books
And  let me take shelter in their nooks?

Mirror mirror on the wall
I used to search for someone to soften the fall
But now I understand
that nothing ever goes as planned.

Mirror mirror on the wall
Whatever your answers, I will not bawl.

Pain

Pain.
Bottled up and swallowed down.

Pain.
Memories come back in cycles.

Pain.
We were happy, maybe that’s a lie.

Pain.
H was more important than I was.

Pain.
It brought you death. Devastation was what awaited me.

Pain.
Robbing me of my sleep and sanity.

Pain.
I don’t want to miss you, but I do. I always do

Pain.
I wish you wouldn’t still hold me in such a tight grip.

Pain.
Is to let go.

what you don’t know

what you don’t know is

that I hurt inside

when I shouldn’t feel that way

 

what you don’t know is

that I miss you

although you’re long gone

 

what you don’t know is

that nothing can soothe that pain

I know, because I tried a lot

 

what you don’t know is

the numb feeling

when I see you with her

 

what you don’t know is

that I would rather die

than let you see me cry

 

what you don’t know is

that I am not strong

not even a little

 

what you don’t know is

that I pretend

because it’s easier than dealing with reality.

Fire Starter

Fire had always fascinated him. Flames burning colorful. Powerful. A fire has the ability to save lives and to end lives. Yes, fire was his favorite element. There was nothing more exciting than a matchstick that lit up or the red embers casting gloomy shadows.
His fingers were cold and a distored smile spread on his face. He took his most precious gift – a lighter, out of his pocket and lit the end of a piece of paper on fire. He saw it burn and loved it. The smell, the colors, the sound of the flames eating the paper. Pure satisfaction.

All the little things

All the tears we cried
All the useless deaths we died.

All the heartbreak
And the broken dreams
Replaced by unseen daybreak
And soundless screams.

All the times we lost hope
And the times we wondered how to cope.

Destroyed by ruthless thoughts
Scattered on the floor.
Like light guiding the moths
Truth hidden behind closed doors.

All the times we dared to love
Flown out the window like trapped doves.

I want it back, that carelessness.
I want it back, that lover’s touch.
Give me back my happiness
Turn back the time, please, I wish it for myself so much.

All the smiles we never had to hide
Because I loved you and I showed it with all my pride.

frames

memories of us, put in a frame
seeking for signs and to know who is to blame
all the sadness in my heart
when did it really start?

I was a lost child then
and still am now
I breathe when I can
if not, I leave with a bow.

frames full of memories
evoking sad tunes and melodies
the past is filled with tears
plastered with a kinds of fears.

I was a lost child then
and still am now
I breathe when I can
if not, I’ll quietly take a bow.