This week wasn’t a good week for me. I lost the motivation to write to work to efficiently function. I feel numb inside and out. Maybe its because the semester’s winding down and the stress of finals, projects, papers are starting to weigh on me. Maybe its because I’m going through my mid-mid life criss. I describe my mid-mid life crisis in more detail in my “Diary, Welcome to My Midlife Crisis at the Age of 20” blog post.
Once upon a time, when I had the time I would write for fun because it was therapeutic. It was a way for me to relieve stress and release my thoughts into something more concrete then my memories. I would create characters and scenarios within these characters and sometimes I would write stories in which these characters coexist. Sometimes I would write about how my life thus far or how conflicted I may be feeling at the moment.
March 23rd, 2016 at 12:46p.m I wrote this entry.
I don’t know what I want from life anymore. I want to live and experience. Travel and laugh. I want love and happiness. I am 20 years old and I feel as if I am going through a mid life crisis. My relationship with God is at an all time low. The relationship with my family isn’t getting any better. My career, my 18 year old dream is slowly coming together but now I find myself second guessing what I want to do with my life. My boyfriend — my boyfriend. He makes me happy. The more time I spend with him the deeper I see myself falling for him. Falling in love? No, not just yet. He said I am too “closed off”. One of the most closed off people that he knows. I’m not even surprised.
Maybe I’m closed off because of the outcome of my parents relationship. They hate each other. Hate each other some much that they can’t be in the same room together to get a proper divorce. My father physically, emotionally and spiritually abused my mother. I am not ashamed to say so. Neither do I resent my father for abusing my mother. I remember one event specifically, my brother and I were young, useless, powerless. My father backed my mother into a corner of the bathroom. He was yelling, screaming his heart out at her and she was…unresponsive. She was so quiet but not out of fear. She looked so strong as she held her ground in silence. He belittled her, threatened her life and she stood her ground, the little ground that her two feet stood on. That was the only ground she had left and there she stood in silence.
My father called for my brother. In tears he came and I followed. The knife he said. The large 10in cooking knife my mother would use to cook meals for my brother and I, my father as well with love and laughter. God she lived to cook. The same knife was pulled out against her threatening her life.
I remember the lack of resilence, emotion, movement, the lack of fear. At that moment, when the edge of the sharp blade touched her unwary skin, she wasn’t just my mother, she was my hero. She was the woman I aspired to be. Not a woman in a relationship filled with hate and abuse but a woman who stood her ground despite the adversaries pulled or thrown against her. My mother lived another day, as did my father, as did my brother, as did I. I want to say that nothing was the same but it was. We lived, we moved on. She survived. As did I. A decade later the scars are as present and as vivid as my memories of these events. I have come to learn that I failed to heal and that scars such as this may never fade away.
I’ve written for myself before after this entry sporadically — a few lines here a there but I don’t have the time to write out my thoughts and have my own personal therapy session. Maybe its because I’m too busy or may be its because there’s no point to this and this therapy session I’ve been giving myself doesn’t work. Who knows?