digging deep

Ever since my last meeting with Kristi, I've been stewing on what I would write for this journal entry. What would I say? In the last session, I revealed the sense that I haven't dug deep enough. That there's something underneath it all. There's some deeper layer to my pain.

Despite all my work, I still have this rage. It's rage based in fear. It amps up so quickly. It's the fear that I'm all the hurtful things others have said about me, or the ways they've treated me that reveal how they feel about me. It's the ease with which I've been condescended, dismissed, and laughed at to my face. It's the fear that I've ultimately been stained by these things. That I've been dealing with them for years and haven't found a way to truly rise above them. To find peace. I've been trained to recognize that ultimately I can only trust myself to stick up for me. Even those with the best intentions can't be trusted to navigate my pain. Inside, I feel like I'm filled with the most fragile china figurines. If I let anyone in, I can't trust that they won't brush something off the shelf. In my mind, that figurine falls to the floor and shatters into a thousand pieces in slow motion. Like some market in a shitty beach tourist trap, once it shatters, a million people will tread on it and not even notice.

I'm haunted by the inner voice of all the people that have judged me before. I'm haunted by my parents. How can they ever actually know anything about me. The thing is: I do want their approval. Fuck I'll take anyone's approval. But I wish I could have theirs. But I know it can never happen. How the hell am I ever supposed to tell them that not only do I fuck guys, but I am genuinely not straight?! I'm not their golfing, whiskey-swilling, right-wing shithead. I'm a queer, cock-sucking communist!
With every nasty little comment, every judgey remark, mom has made it abundantly clear what awaits me if I were to ever tell her the truth about me. It's as if to say "I dare you to tell me your truth."

That eats at me. I hate that. I hate her for it. I don't want to hate. I don't want to hate.
But I'm so goddamn angry. Who else will stand up for me if not me?
Why can't I conquer this shit?

Inside I feel like my self-worth is this lattice work, built up with films of glue. you could sneeze and blow it away.

Thankfully I have Ella. She's my chance to atone. My chance to redeem myself from all this shame—all this shit. She's everything to me.

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