Reading my world....I'm not alone
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So I guess I have people out there in the universe who read my posts. It feels strange to know that people are reading my words. Who are you?
I wonder what are they getting from it? Does it bring them to a better understanding of themselves. I know for myself writing and putting it out into the world brings me a small amount of feeling like I'm being heard.
and sometime I lie awake at night and just cry.
I live in a house full of people and I mean FULL. There are 6 adults, 2 kids, 6 dogs ranging in size from a lab to a chi wow wow and let's not forget the 2 cats. I am never alone, the house is never quite, and yet inside my brain I am very alone and it is very quite.
This poem is my life:
“I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in.
I am lost... I am helpless.
It isn't my fault.
It takes forever to find a way out.
I did this so many times I just can't count. Forever was such a long time each time I did this.
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don't see it.
I fall in again.
I can't believe I am in the same place.
But, it isn't my fault.
It still takes me a long time to get out.
Now I'm feeling stupid and I know the world thinks I'm stupid, even my kids think I'm stupid. I'm ashamed I just want to hide I am stupid.
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in. It's a habit.
My eyes are open.
I know where I am.
It is my fault. I get out immediately.
I start to see that I have a problem and start looking for answers and help. I acknowledge that something is wrong that I must stop this cycle.
I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.
After going to therapy and learning to love myself first I learned this hole is just that a hole. It doesn't control me, it doesn't own me. I'ts just a frickin hole in the ground filled with crap.
I walk down another street.” holding my kids hands and my head up high.
Now I'm not alone.
