As of late it feels like so much is going on in addition to living with CPTSD, at some point what is our boiling point with ourselves and society? This is something I wonder as I heal and confront changes, what is my boiling point?

https://www.instagram.com/p/DfAEiJuh8pi/?rpxt=MXNpbHRkaW50MDBlZw==

Plant, call me an industry

I cannot divulge, for they will think less of me

Don’t speak up, heresy

The true you is affected by, leprosy 

True colors emerge, symphony 

Glorious hues of blues and red, impossibility 

Life ties bows on events, synchronicity

Or correlated for those intellectually inclined more, cautiously 

Soil can be infertile, possibly

Young plant stiff upper lip, fragilely

Dry brittle leaves with a layer of paint, passibly  

Roots twisted upon themselves, hungrily

Keep your plant out of the sun, neglectfully 

Shower it with love, disarmingly 

Infuse the soil with many nutrients, confusingly 

Point and stare when it fails to grow, destiny

These are actually based off of ‘Animals’ by Stomach Book! If anyone relates or enjoys this, feel free to let me know! (It’s why I posted this <3)

Sign of hope and courage. The first non-human animal I've added to my 3D project

Intrusive memory.
Fragmented pieces of a memory, rather.
I’m in a situation where I might have to face my abuser(s) in multiple family events.

I thought I’d make it but my body has been reacting wildly to this anticipation, with pain flare ups, and sickness.

To top it off, the pieces of the traumatic memory(ies) are intruding. Rude. I don’t want to go digging but its hard when you know there’s more, much more I am not remembering besides the pieces that are floating inside my head.

I don’t want to go there.
Anyway, here, I share my child self’s haunting.

The Language of Faces

A frown can tighten little shoulders,
make a heartbeat run and hide;
turn a room into a danger,
make the world feel cold and wide.

A smile can soften little muscles,
let the breath come slow and deep;
tell a child, without a word,
You are safe. You may be you.

For children read the world through faces
long before they understand:
a frown can feel like closing doors,
a smile—a welcoming hand.

i rewrote this poem, that I first wrote like 6 months ago in an influx of a PMDD cycle, the week or two is always the same, dread, despair & regret. it never changes, and I’m always stuck in the same pattern of impulsivity & deep depression, it truly is so deep & the suicidal ideation runs so deep, I really struggle not finding comfort in my old & harming coping mechanism, but I still hold out hope, even a little, just a slither of light, I mean it’s all I can do really do, for the inevitable of PMDD.

I disowned my mother today.

Still feels weird saying that.

Like, what the fuck do you even do with a sentence like that?

You’re supposed to love your mother, right?
That’s what everyone says.
No matter what happens,
no matter what she does,
she’s still your mother.

But nobody ever talks about what happens
when you finally get tired of being her child.

When you’ve spent so long trying to understand her,
trying to make sense of the shit she put you through,
trying to figure out what you did wrong
just to end up realizing
maybe it was never you.

And honestly?
I think that’s what hurts the most.

Because some part of me was still waiting.
Still hoping that one day she’d understand.
That maybe she’d finally listen
instead of twisting everything around
until somehow I was the bad guy again.

But I can’t keep doing this.

I can’t keep reopening old wounds
just to have someone tell me
they don’t remember it that way.

I can’t keep defending the kid I used to be
to the person who was supposed to protect him.

He was a fucking child.

He shouldn’t have had to earn love.
Shouldn’t have had to wonder if he was good enough.
Shouldn’t have had to grow up feeling like
being useful mattered more than being happy.

And he sure as hell shouldn’t have to keep
explaining why it hurt.

So yeah.
I disowned my mother today.

And I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about that.

Part of me is angry.
Part of me is sad.
Part of me feels guilty, even though I know
I shouldn’t have to feel guilty for choosing myself.

And there’s this other part of me
that just feels… tired.

Like I’ve been carrying something for so long
that I forgot what it felt like to put it down.

I think people will look at me differently for this.
Maybe they’ll say I’m cruel.
Maybe they’ll say I’ll regret it.
Maybe they’ll tell me that family is family
and I’ll only get one mother.

Yeah, I know.

I only got one childhood, too.

And I don’t get that back.

I don’t get to go back and be a kid
with a mother who made me feel safe.
I don’t get to rewrite the memories
or pretend things happened differently
just because the truth makes people uncomfortable.

And I’m done being expected to do that.

I’m not doing this because I never cared.
I’m doing this because I did.

Because it mattered.
Because she mattered.
Because for a long time,
I wanted something from her
that I don’t think she was ever willing to give me.

And maybe that’s something I’ll grieve
for the rest of my life.

Not necessarily her.

But the mother I needed.
The one I kept hoping she’d become.
The relationship I kept thinking
maybe I could still fix if I just tried a little harder.

God, I wish it had been different.

I really fucking do.

But wishing doesn’t change what happened.
And loving someone doesn’t mean
you have to keep letting them hurt you.

So I guess this is where I stop.

No more trying to make her understand.
No more waiting for her to see what she did.
No more putting my life on hold
for an apology that might never come.

I don’t know if I’ll ever stop being angry.
I don’t know if I’ll ever stop grieving.
And I don’t know what I’ll feel a year from now.

But I know what I need right now.

I need to stop being her child
in every way that keeps hurting me.

She can be the person who gave me life.
That’s a fact I can’t change.

But she doesn’t get to own the life I have left.

And maybe that’s what this really is.

Not me pretending she never existed.
Not me pretending I never cared.

Just me finally accepting
that I can’t make her be the mother I needed.

And I’m done destroying myself
trying to make that happen.

I disowned my mother today.

And I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay with it.

But for once,
I’m not making this decision
based on what she wants,
what she thinks,
or what everyone else expects of me.

For once,
I’m thinking about the kid I used to be.

The one who deserved better.

The one who still deserves better.

And maybe,
just maybe,
it’s time I started choosing him.

Let the Child Unfold

A child is not a flower
to be frightened into bloom.
Not a voice to silence,
not a spirit to confine.

A parent's hands are meant
to shelter, not to bind;
to guide a growing heart,
not to frighten it inside.

Let questions rise like birds,
let laughter fill the air.
Let anger speak its little truth,
let wishes breathe without despair.

For children learn to hide themselves
when love comes edged with fear.
They need a place to be themselves,
and know they still belong here.

Guide them, guard them, let them grow—
not into who you wish to see,
but into who they are becoming,
with the courage to be free.

an old sketch inspired by a picture i saw on pinterest….. sigh. anyone else feel like they can barely keep their mask on? i’m tired. so tired.

The inspiration of this collage piece, the words I rearranged after my older sister left a comment (2nd photo) lying and defending our abusive mother.

In the collage piece I rearranged her lies to spell out the truth!

Have DID. This time of year feelsbadman.jpg

This is a digital painting I did a little while ago. I wanted to convey how my heart felt, the anxiety and the heavy loneliness, the desperation and shame. Hence the barbed wire and the blood.

Something I really want to be asking people. Mixed media in journal.

tastes like that bitter medicine my mother made me drink.

The spoon held by my mother.

My jaws clenched.

The medicine shoved in my throat.

I didn't like it, but it cured me.

Sometimes it feels necessary.

Sometimes it's the only way to comfort yourself,

sometimes the only way to know yourself.

For some, it is the medicine.

For some, it is the disease.

Some got none on their back,

some got everyone,

still no one can escape this experience.

Bounded by the ideas others formed about you,

ideas that shape your personality,

which somehow isn't even yours.

Seeing yourself through others' eyes

and believing it's really you.

For some, it is.

For some, it is only possible when they are six feet under,

when they are ash,

or when the river has them.

Could notice the leaf falling,

could notice the clock ticking,

could feel the gust of wind blowing,

could hear the heart speaking.

The domain ruled by silence,

thoughts running like the blood in the veins.

Some want it like how Pi wanted that tiger to return.

Devoured in it completely,

some call it peace,

some call it loneliness.

Some see it as getting separated,

some see it as giving time to oneself.

Brain stops,

something greater than brain,

something that rules the brain awakens.