So I saw my psychologist two days back, we tried to get to the source of my pain, it was taxing and tough and I cried a lot. After an hour we ended up with me as a kid lying on my bed in the fetal position sobbing away. When I got home this is what I wrote in my journal:
…All that I saw was my young self lying on my bed crying furiously at the injustice and the pain that won’t go away. The pain that made me wish myself dead… The injustice in the world that I hated as a child, now being made a victim of. The intense anger at being held against my will in this victim role, not being able to rise above it all. To be untouchable. To be the strong woman who lifts others or of the mud, now myself in the thick of it and unable to escape it. Being proven only human. Not the super human I knew I was destined to be. Falling prey to human emotions. The anger, still raw and untainted by the ground which it has been buried deep under. If I had someone then to talk to me, to curb the hopelessness which spread like mould over the damp absorbing walls of my mind, turning me into a sort of super human, but not the good kind. The kind that will always want to return to its own waste. With all my creative power I’m recreating the death of my innocence and failing to resurrect it again. So I wade through the waters as the tide rises. Hoping that this time it would swallow me whole, spit out my bones for my parents to mourn over.