Where Were You

Essay written by TabbyKatt94 on Monday 4, February 2019

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More of a diary entry, I know.. Just needed to get it out of my head.. NOT FINISHED

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I wish I met you first. Before he broke me. Let's be honest, I clearly am. Broken. I wasn't exactly mint condition before he got his hands on me, but he sure did a number. I still think back at times, and blame myself when I know I shouldn't. Now there's a sign that someone is broken. Knowing that you shouldn't do something, but doing it anyway because your heard and your brain can't seem to communicate together. Sometimes we don't understand what this means. We don't realize just how deeply we feel things. Outside, we may seem to have it all figure out, we may be thriving, but still there is a war going on in our minds. You may not notice it, but I am. Broken. You seem to think highly of me; and while that should encourage me, it only makes me feel worse. What if I disappoint you? I am living a lie. You think I am so amazing, but I am so broken. I can't let you see. I still cry when I think of what could have been. I don't tell you, but that's why. Broken. Clearly, as I am leaking. I wish that the bad times weren't bad because the good times were so good! That's how they get you, though. He was perfect at first, but in the end he was exactly the opposite. There were signs I should have noticed, though. Broken. I couldn't see the signs, because he broke me. I was blinded. He told me I was a good singer. He loved it when I sang. It was part of what attracted him to me. Shortly after, he would tell me to shut up. Tell me I was too loud. Tell me I was a bad singer, no one wanted to hear that. Broken. If I was a good singer at the start, then suddenly I was a bad singer, I must be. Broken. I couldn't see that it wasn't me, but him. He used to tell me I was beautiful. He loved when I got dressed up, make up and hair all nice. He showed me off. I loved it. Then he stopped thinking I was pretty. He called me a scumbag in the middle of Walmart one day. Not just that one day, but that day in particular he did. Around children and parents. I hadn't done my hair, my clothes were lazy and baggy, I hadn't done my make up. Broken. I looked different than when we first got together, so I must be. It had nothing to do with the fact he wouldn't give me the time. Not at all. When he would suddenly say we were leaving, rarely tell me where we were going. I would say let me get dressed, only to be told that there was no time. If I tried to stay home, for fear of looking like a scumbag, he would scream at me. I wasn't allowed to stay home, and I wasn't allowed to take more than five minutes to get ready. Broken. He always built me up before he tore me down. Subtly, every time I did get dolled up, he'd ask me who I was trying to look good for. Who was I trying to impress? The thought of losing him could kill me, because no one else would ever love me as much as he did. Broken. I must have been, to believe that was true. The real heart break, though, was being told that he wouldn't leave me if I miscarried. Only to find out a week after my loss that he traded me in. Broken. Losing the chance to have one of my own. Broken. Knowing that he knocked up the harlot he left me for while I still am yearning for a little one to love. Before I Fell Apart. - Before I Had No One. I don't have a father. I have a sperm donor. He couldn't be bothered to love me, either. There was never a "positive" role model for me growing up. That's how it began. He left first, then mom was never around. Even when she wasn't working, she wasn't really there for me. I felt very alone all of my life. Kids at school never really wanted to be my friend, either. Probably because I wasn't like them. I wore weird clothes because we were so poor, and I smelled bad because mom smoked in the house. On top of that, I was socially awkward. I never really learned how to act around other people. Just when I was starting to make friends, we moved away. I had to start all over. Even now, I pick the wrong people. I think I have made a friend, only to be abandon again. Because Now; [color=#663399]Compliments make me uncomfortable. You can never know if the person saying them is sincere. Even if you think you can trust them, you'd be surprised. Dressing up makes me feel guilty. I don't feel that I deserve to look nice. I feel like a failure. Nothing has gone according to plan and it makes me feel as though I have wasted years of my life. I feel unloved. Not that you don't love me, but more of a 'why would anyone..' sense. I'm not worth loving. I'm not worth knowing. I'm sorry, that I apologize so often and for no reason. This is why. I'm not all here right now. You don't have all of me, because I don't even have all of me. Where were you? I wish I met you first. I wish I had known you all my life. I wish I wasn't so screwed up by the time you found me. I'll be okay. I'm just broken. Slowly, I am gluing myself back together. Once in a while, you hand me a little shard of myself that I didn't even realize was missing. Thank you. For everything you have done for me. I don't think you realize just what you mean to me or how far I have come in the short time we have been together. Yes, even we have our conflicts. I am so happy, though, that I found you. We never argue and you don't make me cry like the others. I almost forgot what it felt like. To be okay. I'm getting better. One day, I will be whole again. One day, I will forget I was ever so shattered. One day you will have all of me. Thank you, for putting up with my convolutions. For looking after me, and being that voice of reason when I don't know how to act or my sanity when I get too wild. You ground me.

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    Tabby, I highly commend you for this well written, courageous personal account of these painful times in your life. In these "Me Too" times emotional abuse has made less of a media impact than those of the sexual and physical aspects. In some ways, emotional abuse can have a much greater negative impact on the victim. I spent much of my work life employed as a youth worker in a tough part of town. I witnessed the impact of toxic abusive relationships: substance abuse, self-cutting, eating disorders, legal troubles, etc. You share all the classic symptoms: feeling inadequate, needing others to make you whole, fearing no other will love you. "He" sounds like the classic controller/manipulator who one day is sweet and caring and the next, just plain abusive.

    If not already, I would suggest some professional counselling and connection with a positive mentor. Although "broken," you can be fixed, the "glue" being your learning to develope a sense of self worth and confidence, not from others, but from your own inner self. Not easy but definitely doable. And then you can mend and sing your own song loud and clear! I wish you the best.

    I would love to read more of your writings in the future.
    Welcome to the Den, Tabby. Read this earlier without time to comment. When I came back to comment, the main text had been changed to a color that makes it too hard for my eyes to read.
    I recall the piece as effective and well written, if a bit too long for my taste. The format with each line centered served no purpose here for me: that (& colors & fancy fonts etc.) should be reserved for when you publish writings or use them on greeting cards. Don't know if this is a personal purging or a fictional account -- I certainly don't have all my characters' troubles and flaws -- but if it is personal then I hope you've found some psychic glue. Write on.
    Thank you for commenting on my writing.

    ~ I tried to edit the colour, and it's now the lightest shade of purple I could find. This writing, for me, is a personal catharsis. In the future, there will me much fictional stories to come, but I only just returned to writing and this is what I chose to write first. It's just my way of getting all the bad stuff out without forgetting how far I have come. I have no intentions of publishing. I want to better my writing just for personal purposes.. The centering and the colour are part of my artistic personality. I like colours.. Even on paper, I use several coloured pens to write anything I write. I know it isn't traditional, but it's a personal thing. I do want colours that aren't hard to read, though. So thank you for letting me know.

    @Mike L B~ Thank you for showing your concern. It is much appreciated. As for the professional help, I tried when I had my mental break. The counselor made matters worse, if you can believe that. I felt like she didn't care, and she wasn't hearing me. I was screaming for help and all she cared about was a pay check.. I almost checked myself into a mental institution right after my meeting with her. Every part of me was in pain.. physically, mentally, emotionally. I couldn't breathe, I was having panic attacks. Couldn't eat or sleep.. I found people to talk too, though. I have a close friend who has a degree in psychology. He is who I talk too when I have bad days. I don't have bad days anymore, though. He saved my life. I was with it enough to message him and tell him I wasn't okay. Of course, I had been cut off from every one because of my ex. So at first I didn't think any of the people I used to talk too would WANT to hear from me. I have since reconnected with most of them. My new man also pushes me to be independent and is very supportive of anything I want to do. I don't NEED him for myself to be okay, but I know that if I fall, he will catch me. He is part of my support system. Happy to have him. My writing is far from finished, but in time it will show that I have grown. I am doing a lot better now. Not just mentally, but physically and in terms of life. I have a 'job' and a home and friends I consider family. I have life goals. I'm working towards things I want. I'm going to be okay..
    Nicely done. I would brighten the text color to make it eye-easy and do a bit of formatting.

    And you are correct. It is like a diary entry.