" It really comes down to that deep, deep core belief rooted inside of her, the belief that she is not worthy. She is not worthy of the love given to her, she is not worthy of the people in her life, she is not worthy of the possessions she has. She truly does not feel worthy of life."
In less than 12 hours I'll be on my way to San Francisco. I remember when I asked my parents whether I could go, how constricted I had been feeling those past couple of weeks. Like every corner I turned, there somebody was, watching me, supervising me, making sure I didn't abruptly pull out a gun and shoot myself. Once you attempt suicide, that's when all the trust goes down the drain. And yes, eventually you may get some more independence back but, that worry from other people, that fear will never go away. I had mixed feelings the next week as we worked out details of taking time away from ADTP, being on my own (although I had plenty of cousins) and all the drama that came with declaring some independence. When my sister decided to tag along, that's when I knew that even if I'd be turning eighteen in four months, even I felt ready to be independent, no one will ever TRULY let me have that. Because in real life, eighteen is not a magical number that suddenly converts you into a fully responsible, well deserved, flawless, decision making adult.
I want to say everything but I don't know how to start. I want to express everything but I don't know where to begin. How do you say things to people who don't understand?
I want to write about everything that is happening right now. But I have issues because everything posted, even things posted for nobody to see, still must be impeccably written. I want to write about ADTP, about Dr. L, about Dr. P, about all the hundreds of people and nurses and patients and doctors I've met, about how crazy the past year has been. I want to write about all the shit I've been through. Part of me wants to do it because basically I have no other place or person or thing to vent to. Another part of me thinks that maybe one day I'll go back and read everything I've written. That maybe when I'm older I'll actually care what seventeen-going on eighteen- Hafsa had to say.
Okay, this is cheesy but I have to say it. I feel like...like I have all this love and affection to give and it's building up inside me. *cringe* okay hold on, let me explain. Normally we give love to people and show affection daily, whether it's an affectionate conversation with a best friend, a tight hug and a sloppy kiss from parents, even a shy smile from that boy who's cute. All the big things and all the little things add up. But of course, it's never so easy in Hafsa-land. I have this big bad monster enemy called "TRUST." To quickly summarize the story of all these trust issues it all comes down to being wronged in the past. For more information refer to memories "Bitchass Guidance Counsellor", "I know you're talking about me", "Oops, did we forget to tell you we're dating?!", "Suck it up and try harder" and every other time somebody has stabbed me in the back or hurt me. I guess a considerable amount of the trust issues also comes from the fact that growing up, I really didn't have people to talk to. I mean I did have my family but, let's be real here, you can't talk to your family about everything and, growing up in my household, we honestly just didn't talk about everything. The longer the "let's not talk about anything" principle stayed, the harder it would ever be to actually break the principle. Everything about feelings, emotions, personal, intimate things literally became unspeakable. And with everything else going on within my family the talking, trusting, communicating, all of it, became absent. I did have friends, but talking to my white, all-canadian, organized, scheduled friends who have parents that all know each other and have classy get togethers where they drink wine and talk about how they can improve their kids lives, talking to them about how messy, terrible, complicated and unorganized mine and my family's life is, isn't exactly something that any 8 year old kid wants to do. Well, it wasn't something I wanted to do anyway. And that's how it all started; don't let them see how complicated your life is, don't tell them how messed up your family is, make them believe you have parents who care for you, show them that you're just like them, hide all the bad behind the display of a perfect life. Conceal, don't feel. My philosophy, for what was the next ten years of my life, was set:
"I am the only person I can trust. Only I know what my true
intentions are, how genuine I am being, only I know myself.
Other people's intentions, thoughts and behaviours are out of
my control and therefore I must protect myself against all and
any hurt."
Alright, now remember how I mentioned that I have this giant jar of love I carry around with me? I think that my conclusion is that I have this giant jar of love but I won't give any of the love away because yeah, I'm selfish. Giving away love is risky and scary and terrible and horrible and leaves so much vulnerability, so many opportunities to be hurt. Even letting a little bit of love out is hard, because if one small little thing happens that hurts even a little bit, my whole self will dramatically punish me,it's like a voice saying to me, "See, I TOLD you that this was a bad idea, why are you so damn stupid. Now I need to teach you a lesson about how disastrous giving love and trusting people is, by making you feel all the extreme pain of ultimate emotional hurt. And for good measure, to really drive the point home, I'll even pull your heart out and vacuum out your insides." And, believe me, I DO FEEL THAT PAIN. It's a soul-sucking, inside-out kind of pain that never really goes away. I have all this love to give, but, in a way, I'm not allowed to give it away, I won't let myself give it away. So how can I feel so empty when I have all this love to give? It's a paradox because I feel as if there's this primitive part of me that's unconsciously trying to protect me from hurt, except there is still a very tiny little bit of this conscious, rational part of me that's trying to fight the fear and take the risk. It feels like every time I miss the opportunity to give some love away, I also miss the opportunity to get love back. I miss that true and genuine affection from someone else. That feeling that someone really, truly, genuinely appreciates my presence. Because, in my opinion, you can only truly feel love if you are also genuinely giving back love. It drains the life out of me, it tears me apart, it leaves a big giant black hole in place of where I am suppose to be.
