Not everyone out there, watching your moves is doing it so that they can root for you. See, it’s been brought to my awareness that some of my readers might be creeps, going through my posts just to keep tabs on me. I’d like to say that I’ve flattered that I take up that much space, living in your mind, always finding myself a place. The truth is though, I find it pathetic to continue to return to the place where you aren’t welcome, hoping that your intrusion will someday be enough of an inconvenience that you’ll go unnoticed or maybe even get praise for it.
The truth is, if you feel attacked by what I write, maybe it’s because attack is the only way you know how to approach life. If I wanted to attack you, I would have found other ways. If I wanted to attack you, I wouldn’t have waited until my anger subsided to approach this phase. I walked away when I was ready to throw a punch. I kept my distance when your intrusion on my life were too much. Never used my son as a tool in this game – no matter how much I hated you and loathed seeing your face.
The truth is, if you don’t address and acknowledge the wrongs in your life, they take over. My writing is never an attack but an outlet of my experiences. My writing is my healing that lets me not take the pain and trauma I’ve been put through at the hands of weak people that couldn’t pull themselves out of the darkness so opted to drag me in with them instead and turn it into understanding an empathy rather than anger and hate. You think I need to filter my writing but silence causes lashing out in other ways. Maybe you should start owning the truth so the shame and embarrassment will finally leave you.
PTSD
Would you like to see my diagnosis of PTSD?
I’d even share the notes from years of therapy
When I learned how to heal from the things I was put through
When I learned to stop tiptoeing around people like you
Where were you at, so worried about your son
As postpartum depression brought suicidal ideation up with the sun
Scolded for days I’d sleep on the couch
Angry I would ruin it, cared about nothing else
My friend’s watched the baby, even when you were home
You said he was too young for you to do it alone
Come home late from work, busy getting stoned
As some check showed her tits, supposedly, tried to get you to bone
Now you say I can’t talk
You want to keep me in a box
Silence my words so you can paint yourself nice
Afraid someone might see them – they’ll pick and they’ll splice
If you can be identified by the words in this poem
Own the shit you did yourself because someone else will show them.
Much love, until next time.
Madeline May I... 