A Prisoner Within

I felt ancient and exhausted. I felt like a prisoner within myself and as if I was just watching a movie that was playing before my eyes. I just wanted all of it to end and disappear; I wanted to disappear.

I was surprised hearing my own ragged voice. I sounded so hateful and angry. My voice didn’t resemble any part of what I knew of myself.

I wouldn’t let the old voices dictate me; I wouldn’t let anyone dictate who I was anymore. I was strong enough to know who I was and I wasn’t going to be beaten down again.

Perhaps I really was disillusioned; unable to see myself for who, and what, I really was. Maybe I really was an ungrateful wretch who just refused to take responsibility for my own actions. Maybe I was lying to myself because I didn’t want to admit to being a bad person. Maybe…

My step-dad’s rendition of events was uncontested even by me and therefore, it became our truth. Truth I’d never be able to prove or change; truth that protected him from suspicion and penalty. Truth that I now knew was a lie.

There was that part of me that thought if I was already been accused of it and punished for it, then I should just do it. Of course, I didn’t want to be that person. Did I?

Sitting there, I wasn’t convinced I’d survive until that day let alone beyond it. I felt the struggle intensifying between my mom and me no matter what I did to try to stop it. I couldn’t imagine a future where she’d just let me walk away from her. As it was, I felt like she was breaking me down a little more each day.

As I lay in the late hours of night or perhaps the wee hours of morning, I felt content. I’d been right to keep faith and trust when I had no reason to. I didn’t expect any grand gestures or magical solutions to things, but my hope was fueled.

She’s erasing me bit by bit and it’s painfully obvious that no one can stop her.

Why did I even try then? Of course, in asking the question, I’d already known the answer; faith. I hoped; I couldn’t help it.