The Only Way Out… Is Through.

Of all my works, there is one, and only one, I cannot go near. It’s titled, “Hate My Shame.” Previously, “Hate My Shame, Hate Myself.”

One day I braved it. Took my time writing it out, and then sat there absorbed in it. Looking for areas that required correction. Remembering the feelings which triggered my PTSD and searching for connection.

Searching for connection, not in the sense that I didn’t know the answers, because I wholeheartedly knew what sparked it. “It” being the piece, as well as the PTSD. What I didn’t know, was how to deal with it. I still don’t know.

Frankly, I don’t know enough about PTSD or how to cope with/overcome it in general, because I refuse to deal with it.

I leave it on my computer’s desktop, staring at me… haunting me… fucking grinding at me. I can’t open the file.

It’s one of the main things, if not the only thing, that holds me back… but I can never bring myself to open that God damn file.

For years I have been at a loss. Unsure of what to do, how to face it, how to deal with it.  But the fact of the matter is this:

The only way out is through.

Open the damn file and deal with your shit, Zielinski!

*Side note/disclaimer: What I have stated above is quite personal. The methods that work (they’re really not working) for me, may not work for everyone (let’s be real, they work for no one). I would recommend speaking with a professional (which I have not done in many many years) before taking anything I say or do as sound advice. Peace 😉

Dear Mr. Eldridge *Trigger warning*

When the day breaks, I nearly forget who I am.
Air is tight. My skin, heavy.
This face I wear, is not my own.
So why is it attached to my body?

What is this body…?

I go along with my day.
I know, the fog of the past will reach the ground in time.
Face to face I will be, with reclaiming what is mine.

I realize,
I may have never actually known myself, my face, or my body.
How could I,
When I was nothing more than one of your possessions?

All of me belonged to you.
Down to my every thought, every emotion.
You were the very thing that fueled my every action,
And reaction.

I’m headed home, now.
Such a long time running.
I’m worn down.

Do you remember who I am?
Do you ever think about what you did to me?

I saw your face in the nonexistent shadow of pitch black night.
I ran away from your memory, in the light of mid-day.
It was obvious to me, my strength was fading.

Pin me down beneath your cruel, somber, expanding flesh-
For only one more day.

I saw the clear of the moon’s reflection.
I don’t need, not another second.
Take myself back to that day. First grade.
I decided I didn’t want to look pretty, anymore.
No more dog print dresses, shiny black buckled shoes, or French braids

Just sweat pants and sneakers,
I thought.
I won’t even brush my hair,
I thought.
I’ll play in dirt and I won’t shower,
I thought…
You would leave me alone, but you didn’t.

No matter how hard I tried.
Refusing to be dolled up- Pig tails and mom’s perfume.
You just wouldn’t.
Play thing.

And now that song you used to sing, each night as it was time for bed.
Put me fast to sleep, so you could begin touching me.
It rings in my head, like some sort of Buddhist chant.
Like the universal “hum” of the earth rotating.

Reminding me…
Of my purpose…

You sick son of a bitch.
Did you think you would break me?

And what? You walked free?
Because you never used your tiny dick, to rape me?
Did you think fear would eradicate me?
That I’d remain small and quiet?
Worried that you would one day find me?

Let that fog come. Let it wash over me.
You do not have the power to suffocate me, anymore.

6 feet tall, but you are so fucking small.
Taking advantage of a little girl.
You must truly feel awful,
About yourself.

What grown ass man needs to overpower a child?
Just to feel some sort of validation?
Am I expected to feel some sort of humiliation?
That I constantly allowed a man to conquer me,
Based on mere intimidation?

I’m all grown up now.
And yes, the damage you caused still lives within me.
But so does knowledge and strength and courage.

Face to face I stand, with reclaiming what is mine.

You picked the wrong little girl,
You sick son of a bitch,
You picked the wrong little girl.