Losing The Hate

I’ve often thought of putting the story of my childhood into words, usually after about twelve pints of lager or a few bottles of cheap red. But inevitably the pain surfaces; and what starts out as a gentle breeze always manages to transform into a formidable storm, one which has haunted me for many years.
My head feels as if it is going to burst when this happens; and without thinking, I hurt my loved ones by subconsciously trying to drive them away, often by verbally abusing them. And at times, when the need to lash out overcomes me, I have threatened them physically; adding yet another layer of guilt to my already overburdened sense of self-worth.
You see . dear old Simon has always been too ashamed to confide in anyone. And I can honestly say I'm not sure if it's the judgment, or the pity I have convinced myself would be forthcoming that frightens me most. Be that as it may; I have decided my silence has done more harm than good . . . both in my past and in my present existence.
I am beginning this journey with a heavy heart, and my soul is absolutely exhausted, but I have come to the realisation that the shame I have shouldered throughout my life, was never mine to carry.
Whatever sadness I feel is not so much a result of the experiences; it stems primarily from the knowledge that there are monsters living among us. And although I have managed to gain some perspective on the shame, it is the guilt which continues to eat away at me.
Intellectually I know when I berate myself for not exposing these animals; I am looking back at the situation from an adult capacity. The thought that other children might fall prey to these monsters and suffer the same fate did not even occur to me at the time. But it's this thought that now gnaws at me almost constantly. It is in this spirit that I choose to break my silence, lay the shame where it belongs, and get on with my life.
Although the “self harming” hasn’t happened for many years, it is very much swimming within the deepest recesses of my mind, waiting with bated breath; ready to pounce in any given explosive situation. I sometimes feel it would be easier to tame a wild animal than to suppress those terrifying urges, urges that appear so determined to retake control of my life.

In the “forty one” years I’ve been alive, and in the “thirty one” years my whole body has been burdened with emotional pain; I have never cut myself because I’ve truly wanted to die, or used it as a desperate cry for help. The act of running a razorblade across my forearm has never caused me any pain.
In fact, when the dark red blood has flowed from my wounds, it has always been the hurt, the fear, and the anguish that have escaped, if only temporarily.It seems whenever my life is just starting to work itself out, my demons erupt from the swirling dark mist contained inside my head and tear everything to pieces. Silent screams of hate pound my eardrums and turn love into a dangling carrot that becomes just out of my grasp.
It’s time to confront my demons head on, and try to break the solid foundations that have cemented them inside me for so many gut wrenching years. For far too long I’ve been afraid to trust anyone, fearing that letting someone into the space surrounding me will enable them to steal what’s left of my identity.
SyeP SyeP
41-45, M
Jan 8, 2013