He told me that I would be punished, and he was right.
I lived with the blood and the violence a secret.
I never broke the rule again.
I never sat at a table and ate with them again.
But that wasn’t enough. I fed him. And was punished again.
Every time I eat or even admit that I want to eat I am punished.
No one can convince me otherwise.
I can’t convince myself.
Today was the last straw.
I once joked about ending my life with a straw, but all those that would understand the joke are dead.
If I can be strong I can escape this cycle.
It’s as easy as self control. No razors.
No jumping off the fifth floor for the security cams to record.
Just a choice.
I will not be punished like this again.
You can not hurt me for something I didn’t do.
I’m not trapped.
I can do this.
Written by Jason Wright September 18, 2014
This is what a nervous breakdown looks like. I hit a wall. I stopped eating. I didn’t eat any solid food for more than 3 months. I stopped working. I went on short term disability and applied for long term disability, which I did get; it took about 3 years I think. But this is when the PTSD hit me and nearly broke me. Nobody could convince me to eat or that it was going to be okay. I’ve come so far since this day.
And I’m quite disconnected from my own broken circuit,
But then something sparks and I’m lost in reflection,
I’m drowning in sound and rapt by connection.
Those episodes scare me and I’ve sought to avoid them,
But running from strife has left my heart frozen,
And the path of my life is melting my fear…
Allowing his voice to be heard and quite clear.
He’s the part of me; wounded and starving and aching.
He’s the one we forgot when our hearts were done breaking.
He’s the one who kept screaming though no one was listening.
He’s the one shedding tears that on my face are glistening.
And I fight for him now as he’s fought for me.
I fight for his rights that we both may be free…
The battle is coming, has happened, occurred…
And he knows satisfaction because he is heard,
And we fight now together to achieve correlation,
That was taken when life divorced integration.
Written by Jason Wright June 19, 2014
For him and for me.
It’s a start. I think I make it sound a bit Disney when it’s really very dangerous. I’m always on the verge of something lately. Some of it is wonderful. Some of it is horrible. And all of it is necessary.
I’m a prisoner of the past. A prisoner of a war waged within me.
I’ve been opened up by razors that strived to fix what was broken long ago.
I’ve been gutted.
I’ve had batteries stuffed inside me to replace what father stole, to replace the fear of wrath and the sacrifice for love with metal, plastic and electricity.
So many love my worthlessness that I’m terrified that I’m not already well for them.
I should be better, I know this despite this being irrational.
I am irrational.
My feelings and memories and fears are not rational… Yet my feelings and memories and fears are my reality.
I’m ashamed of what I eat. I’m ashamed that I must eat at all. I feel I should be able to survive without food or the punishment food invites.
Ever since hungry child’s belly drew sister’s blood and torment from angry crazy father monster.
It’s so hard to talk about this; I’ve not talked about the shame in over 30 years and this wave of uncertainty; this ocean of shame is why.
She forgave me once. When I first remembered I wept and begged; she said there was nothing I could have done but I didn’t believe her yet.
In 2009 I began to feed myself. I began to believe. The hungry child’s belly deserved food and I would give it to him. But my sickness persisted and isn’t that basically what he’d told me would happen?
I’m terrified. I’m afraid of these feelings and how much I am feeling… These feelings overwhelm me and facing them risks my survival and the hurt of all those I love.
I’m split down the middle, the hungry child who’s been punished and the righteous lover who’s fighting to save all those he loves; even himself.
How many sacrificed for my salvation? How many destroyed or maimed by my potential damnation?
The numbers weigh heavily on me until I find it hard to breathe unless I concentrate on every breath.
I struggle for oxygen, sustenance and life.
Why the struggle? Sometimes I think it’s fear of death. I don’t want to live forever; I simply don’t want to die.
And in times when the fear dissipates as it does at it’s worst, I count the people whom I love; the people that love me that would be bruised at my passing and that allows me to remain; a prisoner of their love.
But somehow hope remains a persistent bitch.
I hope to escape the past the way I escaped Michigan. I came to this island with my lover and not much else in the hopes that I could escape and conquer that which has been my prison.
Hope is painful and vindictive. Hope has left me weeping for three consecutive life sentences.
Yet hope doesn’t lay down and die when I wish that I could.
And so hope is stronger than I am. Hope can give me the peace that I crave.
I just need to survive long enough.
And if I don’t?
Well, I lasted longer than any of the others… so cut me a break.
