Sincerely October

The biggest hearts are made of scar tissue

A miscellaneous chapter written in early august.

The waiting game
I wasn't sure what was wrong but I knew it was something, something I could feel so deeply but never hold within my hands.
I asked myself why I was getting those thoughts again, why I found myself on my knees again, why everything feels like waiting until it's over.
Why am I once again a whole that cannot be filled? Why am I finding myself in these places again? Why don't I feel like myself anymore?
I seem to be unaware of it each time it visits, each time I feel it coming on again I find the conclusion hard to come too.
So for now I am writing sad poems again, for now I am listening to melancholy music for hours, for now I am going to bed early and waking up late, for now I am waiting until this passes like it always does.

Sunday summer
This summer has been a beautiful one, even in the mess of it all, I believe I will look back on today as one of the good old days.
When thinking of the good old days I'll remember drinking my sweet vanilla latte at the coffee shop with my dad and sister, I'll remember what it was like to finally be a family.
I'll laugh at myself for being so nervous to drive on the highway.
I'll relive going to AA and picking up a chip for every month that passes, I'll cherish the days in which I realized that I actually like being sober.
I'll read my old poems about finding my place in the world, I'll reminisce on the days I was finally learning to be a person.
Even at its darkest this summer felt like closing my eyes and facing towards the sun, I feel its warmth travel to my innermost being.

Abnormal social approach
I spent much of my life feeling that things were wrong in a way I could not explain, something within me is different that I could not put into words.
I would sit with you, I would talk about anything at all, and the sense that I have an abnormal approach would always prevail.
The store was too loud, something about the way I held myself was wrong, my passions were obsessive and annoying, and I didn't know why.
Why does this leave me so empty? Why is this too much?
Am I doing this wrong? I think so but I am not sure how.
I understood something was different but I never was able to capture things with the words that came out of my mouth.
When the doctor told me that I am autistic suddenly the world was far easier to understand.
I was not built with the set of instructions everyone seemed to have been born with. I often did things wrong because no one ever told me how to do them right. I was trying my best and sometimes my best would not reach what was expected of me.
Going to school was so tiring because my nervous system is overwhelmed by bright lights and crowded hallways.
I love things so deeply and obsessively because that is how I am wired.
Not only was it relieving to know why, but to know that there is a word for this, to know that there's nothing wrong with me for being the way I am.

August rambles
So many thoughts are floating through my head, so many words racing in my mind, but I wouldn't know how to string them together.
Tomorrow is six months sober, tomorrow is celebrating my sobriety with a milestone I never thought I'd reach, yet here we are.
I'm starting to like being sober, not just because I'm not hurting, but because I find it far more satisfying than chasing a high that is far out of reach.
Welcome home.
With all of this being true I still find myself feeling that I am not where I should be.
I can't stop thinking about the thing I know I am better off without. I am writing ambiguously about something I am deeply ashamed of.
Maybe I will forget about it, maybe it will be nothing at all, but right now it weighs heavy on my heart.
Do you think you'll ever be well in a way that really matters? I am not sure. I'm better than I was before, but I still find myself questioning if I'll ever get it right.
Maybe I'm worried about nothing. Maybe this will emerge to be something of little significance. I have no way of knowing.
I am better than I was, and that is all I can ask for.
I failed a test today, exponentially, actually. I put forth grand efforts only to make little progress, if any at all.
I don't know what that word means, I don't know what the author is talking about, I don't know how to balance both sides of the equation.
I think I will get to where I need to be, and that's what matters.
I am deeply in love with writing. Writing has always been there, like a hand to hold.
I forget nearly everything that happens to me, so for today I will write about it, today I will capture it and give it a place to live.

Heartstopper
Charlie, a nervous one, a kind soul, a sensitive disposition.
Nick, a proud one, someone who loves loudly, somehow always knowing what to say.
The storyline is perfect in every way I could imagine.
Many moments are light, moments that feel like the sun on your skin.
Oftentimes the moments are heavy, moments that acknowledge a painful, almost crushing truth.
Every moment overwhelming me with excitement, I can feel my body vibrating because of the artistic expression. 
A beautiful story that demands space in my heart.

Retelling the stories of what lingers
Most days I don't think about the rape, I know it is over now.
He's gone and he's not coming back. II survived the worst of it, I know that.
For many months it felt like it never ended, that maybe it had been years since he touched me, but this was not over yet.
I spent a year reliving it endlessly, I spent a year suffocated by the memoires, and somehow that chapter is over.
It was deafening, it demanded space, until one day I woke up and it was over. The memories had been filed away, welcome home.
Still sometimes I find myself thinking of it.
I used to be too ashamed to ever admit it, too ashamed to write it down, until one day I felt the need to tell everyone, to explain what had happened to everyone I've ever met.
My brother raped me. I wasn't allowed to tell anyone so it happened for years. It left me in pieces. I'm still in pieces, actually.
In a way it feels like an explanation, telling someone why I am the way I am. I feel no need to hide it anymore. It's not a confession of my wrong doings, it's a story of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
It's not my fault, it never was.
The truth of the matter is ugly beyond what can be expressed with words.
In a way I am glad it was me. I don't think I could live with myself if it wasn't me. I would rather it be me than anyone else he knew. Living with guilt would kill me, I know it.
When I would hear his feet climb up the stairs I would feel myself become half dead. My heart would beat slower. I would become someone else for a little while. It never felt like me.
Sometimes I think of what it was like for that little girl to carry so much weight. She carried so much pain within her and no one noticed. She went to bed wondering if the unwelcome visitor would hurt her tonight.
Sometimes the worst part is when it is over. When it was happening I was able to bite my inner cheek and bare through it, the dissociation carried me. When it is over you are left to deal with the mess someone else made of you.