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My Crazy Unforgiving Life

by Lora Moore 12 months ago in trauma · updated 6 months ago

L.A. Moore

You know what this is. Or at least you will know.

You have seen it before. A darkness inside that creeps up and bubbles out of you and scares others around you. You always look so unforgiving. Always seem so scary and mad all the time. You are kind. But life has not been so much as that to you.

My friends told my mother today that she raised a good daughter. I am going, being honest. She raised me all right. I just changed who I was when she was not around. Many things are going to be left out simply because it is not who my mother is today. Because to be fully honest, I have changed who she is as well, even if she is the same base person she has always been behind closed doors. Outwardly she is different when she is around me now.

I was raised poor. Or lower middle-class. That meant we ate many sandwiches (which I detest and hate now), and we did not get much else except maybe a whole lot of frozen premade meals. When we lived with my grandmother, we ate many homemade meals, or it was sandwiched on a night when there was not enough time to make a meal. I was a small chunky kind of child. It is one of the reasons I can eat anything together and not blink an eye. For example, I would mix so many different foods on my plate that almost made my little brothers hurl. But they also got the leniency and privilege (in a way) of being picky eaters. I could never get away with it. I would eat the veggies and stuff when they did not want them, and our parents were not looking. Now they eat everything. And I became the picky eater.

I have grown to be a chunky person later in life, and it is probably all the internal trauma from when I was going up. Being told I had a fat butt and constantly being told I was lazy and did not do anything. But I was doing a lot. I was having seizures because of overstressing to the point of cleaning to feel accomplished at something I thought would earn a little respect from my parents. That is what it boiled down to after all these years. I had thyroid issues when I was sixteen years old. It looked like I had an Adam's Apple. I scarved up and tried hard to keep people out. Out of my head and out of my life. I succeeded for the most part. I told people who I thought would care. They never really did. In fact, after our graduation, they ignored me and never spoke to me to this day. It would be a lie to say I do not miss them in my life. It would also be a lie to say I do not hate them for it now, still after ten years. I sadly think about them too often for my good.

When I was about seventeen, my depression became even worse than it had been in my life, and I began to self-harm. You cannot see the scars now unless you look for the silver shine. I was not self-harming to try to die. It was to feel something instead of anger and sadness. I had been feeling like that is all I could ever think in my life. I think about it from time to time still.

I have internal wars going in my head all the time, regret that I fight with. Sadness that could fill up a void inside so many people. And nothingness that overflows and has nowhere to go. I struggle to create things at all. I used to be highly creative. Now, nothing. It just sits there like a drowning rock.

I was raised to be middle-class nothingness. Strive for nothing because that is all you know how to do. Just work until you cannot work anymore. And do not get hurt because medical bills are the devil, and no one will help you with them. That is life. A pile of horse manure that you literally cannot do anything with.

Enjoy the small things, they say. I do. Or rather, I try. So extremely hard. But there is this thing in my head that keeps me pessimistic. It keeps me an atheist. Anti-social. Anti-anything that is good for the human soul. Truth.

There are good things in this world. Like a human being helping an animal in need. Or a human helping another human being in need.

I was not born into optimism. I was born into pessimism, sadness, into the darkness of the human psyche. I could be a serial killer. But I choose to use my mind for good and not evil. But how easy it is to think like a serial killer.

Do not get me wrong. I hate that humans kill other humans. I would never do such an evil unthinkable thing in my life. I would be caught immediately. I have never been in the kind of trouble where police are involved. I could never afford that. I say afford as not in money, but my life wealth. I have too much that would be lost if I had ever tried to do such a thing. My daughter would be lost. My current home; lost. My current job; lost. I could not afford it. My stress-induced seizures would come back. My habits would all come back full force without any sign of leaving or being relieved of their duty in my life again. I would be a hopeless mess of human nothingness, again.

I have carefully reconstructed myself into a kindhearted human soul in the husk of a depressed madness-stricken body. These once bright sunflower-like eyes are all dimmer because of this mental illness.

I am the person I am today because I took my mother’s and biological father’s characters into critical consideration and turned myself from those undesirable issues; they both have and curated a better self in most people’s eyes. I learned. I learned all there was to know about anything and everything I could remember. I tried to be better than they were. I took every opportunity to educate myself in any and every way I could. If there was something I did not know about, I researched it. Learned about it. I integrated it into my life as a habit and rolled over to the next.

No, the person I am today was not my mother’s doing but was my own doing. Of course, she did help a little in my personality, but I am all my own. People I have been around have also helped shape me into being unlike them, so much to the point that they almost think of me as godlike or a witch. Not human enough to be treated like a human a lot of the time. But a tool to be used in times of great need.

Honestly, I do not see that as a bad thing. I may as well be equated to that of an AI.

These days, like today, I am drowning in my depression. I have so much that makes me weep in silence. But as always, I find my way out of it for a while to be able to keep it at bay until it drags me down again. It is a never-ending war.

Until next time.

trauma

Lora Moore

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Read next: Notes of an Introverted, Isolophiliac HSP

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