Words are powerful

**trigger ⚠️ warning**

Words are powerful, they can leave scars on souls.

When written on your skin they are impactful, impossible to forget.

So much so that I felt like I had to carve them in my skin, to make them permanent.

Never could I forget that I was fat, ugly and stupid.

I used a blade to draw with blood onto the canvas that was once my skin.

Those awful words that hurt so much, the world would know I was as such.

But the monster that live within was only fuelled by this act of anger.

My eating disorder was only stronger and shame turned into hatred.

You can’t unsee want was once written on your skin, even if it was a sin.

It is so impactful and so often disrespectful. Let’s remake history.

Just grab a pen and be with me. Write over those nasty words. Be respectful, restore your scared soul.

Words are powerful, let’s just be hopeful, that this time we’ll see the stains on our skin of what we choose to be.

Douleur divisée

La moitié de moi semble vouloir s’enfuir de moi. J’ai si mal. Comme une scissure au niveau de la fissure de mon être. Est-ce seulement physique ou le reflet d’un profond mal-être psychologique? Ma vision est brouillée, mais seulement d’un côté. Comme si j’étais obligée d’avoir une regard biaisée. Quelle douleur. Et puis je sers les dents en allant de l’avant, parfois en titubant. Les élancement que je ressens! Tout mon corps se divise entre la souffrance qu’on peut nommer et celle sans point de référence. Je veux que ça cesse mais la seule unanimité de mon être divisé c’est mon impuissance et mon incapacité.

Failing

Here I go again, dying instead of living but mostly failing at both. What will it take,

Blood pumping in my veins, consciousness fleeing my brains. What will it take,

The harder it gets, the lesser I try but the stronger the attempt. What will it take,

Needless to say, I am not okay. But what difference does it make when nobody holds the key to serenity. What will it take,

I’m simply broken, so sorry my friend. I’m dying, with every minute I’m choking with every word, I’m leaving with every dream. I’m failing

Calme bienveillant face à l’effroyable tourment

sise je suis, face à la glace qui reluit.

calme, je réfléchis, tout ce détaille, se défini

Les gestes, mouvements, sciemment choisis

1, 2, 3, 4, 5,

Doucement, je fais le décompte de ce qui viendra

C’est le temps qui ralenti ou l’air qui me sembla

Enlevé de tout tourments, stoïque face à ce qui sera

12, 13, 14, 15, 16

Méthodique, répétitif, presque mécanique

préparation réfléchie, mouvement fatidique

Coordonnée, finie, pratique

23, 24, 25, 26, 27

Fini la rhétorique, à toute fin pratique, je choisi l’action

C’est le silence et la bienveillance qui guident ma vision

Tranquille, laissant aller les tourments, tel une illumination

34, 35, 36, 37, 38.

Limits

Knowing your limits, it means that you know when to stop. You know when to ask for something to stop. You know when you have reach the end of your rope. Knowing your limits.

It also means that you have boundaries, healthy ones, that you respect them. You can trust yourself because you know yourself. You know when you cross that line and you know how to respect not to cross it. You know yourself.

But what happens if you don’t ?

If you don’t know where is the limit, if you can’t ask for something to stop even when you should because you don’t know you should until it’s too late. What if your whole life has been about never letting anything stop you, especially yourself. What can you do?

If all you know of yourself is that you always push your boundaries further away. Do you really know yourself then? If you try to trust yourself but you see yourself crossing the line anyway. Can you really trust yourself?

I need a “do not cross” sign. I need it to be explicit. I don’t know my limit.

Distance

Comment se sentir si loin tout en étant virtuellement si près. Comment être physiquement si loin et pourtant si près. La distance cette année fût grandement mise en évidence. On pu l’apprécier plus que jamais, elle fut si grande, vécue de près.

On pu aussi y voir que comme sans vouloir y croire elle s’avéra suspendu au monde du relatif. S’étirant, tel le temps, dans cette équation scientifique. Plus on est proche et plus s’éloigner est lourd, chaque centimètre est loin, infini. Chacun de ces pas qui nous sépare de cette accolade avec un ami, chaque souffle pris en s’éloignant d’un être cher, chaque sourire couvert pour se protéger; nous on fait sombrer dans la désolation et l’isolement. La distance, chaque jour plus sentie, l’impuissance tapie dans les maisons.

La distance, la vraie, l’éloignement, n’a jamais, lui, parue si mince. Être à l’autre bout de la Terre signifie être aussi près de son parent que le voisin d’à côté. C’est à n’y rien comprendre, se rapprocher du loin n’a jamais été si facile. Mais qu’elle est donc cette distance, qui se ressens si fortement lorsqu’elle est dite minimale et qui ne se ressens presque plus lorsque justifiée par son étendue.

Mais la nouvelle distance ne serait-ce pas plutôt celle dans nos regards, dans nos échanges, dans nos paroles. Ce que l’on omet d’y déceler, volontairement ou non, afin de se préserver. Ce que l’on préfère ne pas dire pour éviter de faire souffrir, ne souffre-t-on pas assez comme cela? Ce que l’on ignore volontairement, l’entendre m’accablerait d’une responsabilité, ça serait encombrant.

Au téléphone, par vidéo, dans le monde réel, par la fenêtre de l’auto, la vraie distance elle est là: On choisit d’ignorer la détresse, la souffrance et la peur ; nous n’avons plus la force, plus les ressources, plus l’équilibre. C’est chacun pour soi car tout le monde vit de la détresse, le réseau quant à lui s’affaisse et tout le monde stresse. L’isolement devient grand, et on perd les mots pour décrire ce qu’on ressens en dedans, à quoi bon. À quoi bon? Personne ne veut les entendre, on préfère nous ignorer ou nous traiter comme des cons.

C’est la prochaine génération, les jeunes adultes: on est sacrifiés, ignorés, abandonnés. Anxiété et dépression c’est tellement courant pour nous, les pilules c’est comme des bonbons. On en prend depuis qu’on est ados, la vie on en a déjà plein le dos. Maintenant c’est l’isolement, on sera vu comme faible si après on ne reprend pas notre élan, mais, attends, as-tu vu comme on est brisé en dedans? L’accroissement économique, les études, l’immobilier, tout ça c’est beau, mais ,nous, on est fauché, tu vois, nos jobs, elles ont toutes fermées, c’est ça le hic.

January 6th #1MinFiction Challenge — Cyranny’s Cove

I took over the prompt, as an homage to Nortina’s late ”One Minute Fiction” challenge. What’s the ”One Minute Fiction” challenge about? Easy. Each week I’ll provide a prompt to inspire you to write a very short story. The idea is to manage to type your whole story in a minute or less. Of course, […]

January 6th #1MinFiction Challenge — Cyranny’s Cove

Ursula always dreamed of a day when she would be able to fly. She was born blind, but what she had not in vision she had in sensibilities, in heightened senses. She loved sounds, and winds, the feeling of how wind moved threw her hairs. She dreamed she would be chosen to visit space, so she could fly, be weightless. But she knew she whould never be, because of her blindness she wouldn’t be helpful enough, she wouldn’t meet the criteria to be an astronaut. So she decided to sang her emotions out and began a singer. Sometimes, when she’s on the stage, the electro waves blasting from the speakers makes her hair move with the flow and she feels almost weightless.

#1MinFiction Challenge

I don’t understand

You’re not getting it. As I move closer to isolation, you walk away. As I choke myself in the dark, you turn off the lights. As my voice shakingly vanishes in doubts you don’t even care to listen.

I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry, I betrayed the only person who ever understood me. Now I’m lonely with my hollow body.

I hate myself. I always make things worst. I want this all to end ; to make things all okay again. Everything would be fine again and people could be happy again. No more worries.

Understand me, will you? …No … It’s true ; you can’t. No one ever did. But that one person who I betrayed. She understood me sometimes more than I did myself but she took advantage of it in ways she never should have done.

Just stop. Stop trying to save me. There’s nothing worth saving anymore. I’m such a lost cause. Why can’t you see. Why do you still think I should be alive, I don’t understand how you can’t see it’s inhumane to live through all I’ve been through. I deserve to leave peacefully. I just want to quit decently. Can’t you see? Nobody has ever been able to help. I wish it had been different but it’s the way it is. Dreams shattered. Hopes crushed. Souls burned. Spirits vanished. I don’t understand what you see about all this that is worth fighting for.

Being no one’s

You wouldn’t understand , no you wouldn’t take the time

You couldn’t see I tried to let you know, you couldn’t hear the words for what they meant.

You simply couldn’t.

He discussed but never took action. He thought it would be enough when it wasn’t.

He stayed physically just to vanish mentally. He was certain it could be enough when it wasn’t.

He knew nothing.

She is so afraid to see it she prefers to leave, she doesn’t know how to face it.

She is so needy she attacks just to prevent others from ignoring her, she’s the queen of ignorance.

She is fragile.

I regret so many things, I never should have talk. I regret being born.

I don’t belong, I never have and I never will. Those who understood are all dead, or soon to be.

I am no one’s

The abuser

I’ve been abused. It’s been hard to admit. Even harder to say it. But as the world is what it is, I regret ever saying it.

I hate myself everyday for having said those words. They made it real. They made everything real. Before I could still, somehow, convince myself that it had never happened. That I was making this up. That it wasn’t true.

But now, now it’s real. It’s so real that it burns from inside. It’s so real that I can’t stop thinking about it, all the time. I have flashbacks and nightmares. Sometimes I even feel the feeling of its breath, of its skin against mine, the abuser.

And yet I can’t hate the abuser. I just can’t, I still care for that person, still couldn’t bare that this person could hate me if I revealed it’s identity. Still fear how it could hurt me.

I feel guilty that I talked about it. I know I betrayed its trust by doing so. But I know my abuser was wrong in doing the things it did to me. I just feel torn apart. And lonely. And scared. And dirty. And guilty. And stupid.

One minute I want to kill myself, the other I want to run back to the abuser because it will kill me.