All the ways I’ve lost my voice

All the ways I’ve lost my voice…
a.k.a WHY IS IT SO GOD DAMN HARD FOR ME TO EXPRESS MYSELF?

bringmeflowers2

I started this blog to be my safe space for creativity. Everywhere I go there are rules and expectations. ‘Sell this, write this way, talk about this…’ and I rebel against it all. Sometimes I just want to type my thoughts and hit publish, no editing. Leave the fucking spelling mistakes. The bad grammar. The way I repeat myself too often or talk in circles. The beautiful chaos of my mind… just let it be. Yet I still have a hard time coming here and writing. I feel blocked. I have felt this way for a long while now.

When I was in high school I went through a dark phase. Some called me an emo kid, but it was much more severe than my black, long hair and love of sad music. I was really depressed and seeking control. {This was when my alter ego, Violet was born. I wanna write about her so bad- the timeline of her existence in my mind and the escape she offered. Think Vi from the Incredibles…} I stopped talking and showing emotion, and I also stopped eating. I wanted to disappear. These were ways I could practice control. My exboyfriend used to call me a mime. I never got help for my anxiety and depression during those teen years. That was the first time I remember losing myself.

Shortly after, my mom was murdered when I was 18. That became the trauma of my life, the one that blew everything else out of the water. Anything else seemed small and pointless. I was ashamed of being so depressed before her death, my life shoulda been a walk in the park. Witnessing her being stabbed, surviving a knife assault myself, and then finding out she didn’t make it was the lowest of lows, incomprehensible to me then, and sometimes even now. Needless to say, I lost a lot of things during this time. My sense of safety, the home that I lived in, the ability to sleep… and yes, my voice. When it came time to go to trial for my mother’s murder I wasn’t allowed to be in the room for most of it because I was a witness. The murderer was allowed to have friends and family testify on their behalf- talk about what a lovely person they were before that night. I was not allowed to do that for my mom until the sentence was decided. Something about not swaying the jury. It didn’t seem fair. Not only that, but there was no room to break down and be hysterical. Anywhere. I felt too much pressure to be okay. At the time I thought the people who cared about me couldn’t handle seeing how this affected me, but now I know it was that *I* couldn’t handle expressing it. If I dared let it out I might never be able to stop it, not in those first few years. I hated to watch the mess of my emotions spill out on to others, the way their eyes looked when I talked about this horrendous trauma. They didn’t know what to say or do. Seeing their eyes struggling to meet mine afterward felt like them holding up a giant mirror to me, forced to look at myself. It was many years before I was healed enough to look into the mirror and see the depth of my sadness.

During the murder trial, I started dating my ex. I was unable to see their drug use and manipulation because, to be honest, I was barely getting through my days. I didn’t want to see it. I wanted a happily ever after. A rainbow after the storm. They said they loved me and they stayed up all night with me, something most people weren’t able to do. But it wasn’t long before I was isolated from the small circle of support I had around me, and told to stop “re-living” my mom’s death. Told that I was embarrassing and making myself look bad. “Be thankful for what you have!” they said. I started to feel self-conscious, first about sharing my feelings that were necessary in order to heal, but then just about everything in life. Maybe I truly was ‘too much’, or attention seeking, or any number of things they told me to get me under their thumb of control. After 6 years of this I felt completely lost, alone, and like the person I was before any of the trauma- whatever little pieces I still had left, were gone for good. I knew my name and my date of birth, but if you asked me anything else about me- I drew blanks. Of course, there is a lot more to say about all this. This was a huge part of the loss of my voice and ability to express myself.

There is one more piece of this puzzle, I suppose the rock bottom part of the story. That shall be told on another day. I had to write this out, organize this, analyze and process these thoughts that have been swirling around when it comes to blogging or talking, expressing myself. Why is it hard to let people in? Why is it hard to free-flow thoughts? Who am I afraid of? Who will see them? Anytime I have a big breakthrough {ALWAYS great writing material}, why do I feel like the rug will be pulled out from under me?These are the questions I have to answer to move past them.

 

BringMeFlowers1
The song I was listening to that inspired my drawing above. A way in which I collect myself enough to write… doodling.

 

 

 

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3 thoughts on “All the ways I’ve lost my voice

  1. I’m sorry to about the horrific event that happened to you and your mother. Having been through my own moment of PTSD, I’ve come to think that in those moments, are the moments of life that define who we will become, for better or for worse. I’m glad to see you’ve found strength to share this traumatic event of your life.

    Liked by 1 person

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