In Search of Identity @thewayiusedtobe - Tumblr Blog

Motherhood is absolutely killing me

But there is nothing else I'd rather die for

#spilled words #motherhood #baby #post partum

What's That Quote?

"Write until it stops hurting" right? What if it never stops hurting? Or is it because I stopped writing? But writing every single hurt that I had never stopped the hurt from coming. It never stopped the blood from flowing. When does it stop hurting?

What are you supposed to write? What words flow out of the fingertips when something in the unexplored depths cracks open? They do not feel like actual words. What are the whole words that stem from brokenness?

What do you write when something is cracking inside of you? Are there words that could close it? Are there words that could heal it? Is there any way to heal it?

-There is no way to describe a pain that feel like darkness

How can one soul be so hellbent on sadness

andallshallbewell

I don't wanna kill myself anymore..

They teach you sexual abuse come from a random man late at night while you are drunk or high or alone. They teach that it comes from a random uncle or cousin at a young age while you are unaware of your actions. They teach this and warn against it. They do not teach that it comes from a lover at an age of maturity. They leave out the part when it comes from a boyfriend, not a stranger. They leave out the part where you will know exactly what you are doing as you sigh and mutter “fine” just so he will finally stop asking.

The part that they do not leave out is the shame; the part where you assume that it’s your fault. It is not your fault. It seems this statement is muddied when you knew what you were saying yes to; when you continue to stay and let him turn your yellow soul to gray. Did you let this happen? Could you have saved yourself the pain? Could you have saved yourself from walking into the cage he kept your heart in?

What they do not teach is when there are no cries for help. If you are trapped and don’t see the lock, how do you escape?

#writing #sexual abuse #help

thewayiusedtobe

“And as quickly as it began, here we are in ruins and I’m looking in your eyes and I tell myself to breathe because I know this is survivable, but you always could break down any defense I had and right then I knew I couldn’t just survive knowing someone like you existed.”

— Late Night Confessions

thewayiusedtobe

Afraid to Fall

“I’m afraid to love her.” He blurts out suddenly. He knows loving means risking the fall and he’s never felt the ground before. “Are you afraid of loving her or losing her?” The old man paused. “Because if your fear dicatates your actions you might find you have lost her anyway. You might see once she is lost that you were, in fact, afraid of both, for they go hand in hand. You do not fear love, you fear hurt. You distance yourself in hope that it can save you from pain, but in the end, it saves you from the amazing miracle that love is. To avoid pain, we must avoid anything that can bring us true joy.” The young man took a moment to take this in and whispered, “I got to go.” while running off, blowing leaves off the cement as he went. The old man simply smirked, knowing he had made his point clear.

I’m tired of doing hard things without you

insomniac-dot-ink

Love is

Love is not a thing with feet, It is a thing with hands, Fingers to link together And palms to press firm And finding new ways To hold someone close And call it permanence.

Love is not a thing with hands, It is a thing with lips, Words to gently form Cracks in your walls and Kisses to turn golden-brown In the pressure cookers of our hearts And call it limitless.

Love is not a thing with lips, It is a thing with wings. Feathers to brush soft Across your face and Powerful flight to find you, To find you again after You’ve been lost at sea, And call it easy.

Love is not a thing with wings, It is a thing of breath: Borderless, wordless, formless. Filling you up so silently it hurts. Everywhere but perhaps A fleeting, falling thing that Disappears without roots. And call it death itself.

Love is not a thing, But we call it a dawn, a cry in the dark, a buoy in the drowning, and thing of hope, of hope, of hope.