Fuck you for breaking my heart and killing my soul.
I’ve been feeling really delicate and fragile for a while now. Feelings about my family have been plaguing me recently.
I’ve always had this chip on my shoulder that eventually everyone leaves. I’m making changes though… not everyone leaves.
What actually happens is I push them away, and that needs to stop.
I recently had a massive debate with a group of culturally diverse people about ‘racism’ and what the term means and who can be affected by racism. It was really rather interesting and quite enlightening.
What struck me the most was their insistence that my self-deprecating view was upsetting for them to hear.
Logically I know I’m not to blame for the atrocities committed hundreds of years ago but that doesn’t stop me from still feeling pained and ashamed for them.
I’m really resisting the temptation to do what I always do. I’m trying to break the mould I’ve created for myself; but in doing this it honestly feels like I’m actually breaking. I’m feeling broken and I’ve no one I can turn to.
I wish to neither go into the poem or it’s greater meaning. Just know that I wrote this for a man in my life who means a lot to me. So to him and for him this poem is.
It felt like I’d just had my heartbroken. I couldn’t write about it though.
No. I just couldn’t.
Instead I did something that very rarely do… I channelled that pain and disguised it into something else.
I’m so used to being so explicit in my poetry about what the actual matter is that at times I wonder if the person who it’s directed at knows. If they do, they never say.
My masseuse does tend to like to discuss things when I go for a reflexology session. She draws out the feelings during the treatment and then likes to reason with me on them afterwards.
She kept using the word ‘narcissist’ in relation to my immediate family. * I know my family can at times be narcissistic; but she was wrong in saying that I was a victim of that.
Narcissists produce more narcissists. I’m in no way suggesting that I’m a one myself; but I’m not completely innocent in not being one.
I think I became so used to everything being about everyone else in my family when I lived there; that now I’m alone I’m falling into the habit of becoming self-absorbed.
Before I had others to care for and to watch out for. I used to have to protect my brother from others; and my mother from herself. I never really had time to protect or care for myself; and no one else protected or cared for me.
So now that I’m alone, I know I’m in danger of becoming selfish and self-absorbed; and I hate that. I hate how I feel I’m becoming. Everything is ‘me, me, me’; and I don’t know how to stop it.
*my masseuse is a family friend so she knows my family and so has every right in expressing her personal observation
I had no idea that what I know I really quite like actually stems from what happened when I was younger.
I never bought into the whole ‘daddy issues’ bullshit; on reflection however, I am now much more sympathetic.
I know it’s taken now to be some kind of kink, but I guess in reality a lot of what we enjoy stems from past experiences.
As to the poetic quality of this I’m unsure… but it felt good as hell to write.