I talk a lot. In fact, I talk so much you think I was a confident, outgoing individual that enjoys speaking to people about everything and loving it when people give me attention when I speak.
I cringe when people look at me when I start speaking. I act. I’m a great actress, in fact, I can make you feel like I’m really excited about what I’m talking about; whereas I’m actually nervous and scared you’d not want to listen to me.
I love listening to you, though. I love when you answer my questions with more than just one sentence, with the essence of your being slightly shared as you engage in conversation with me. That, I love.
But I was not always like this.
I used to be the one who raised her hand when the teacher asked questions.
I used to be the one who volunteered to make friends with new people at church so they felt at home– those my age and behind.
I used to love being the center of attention and being in the spotlight.
But then we moved; we moved to a country where I knew no one, kept myself isolated, and my comfort was writing a poem/prayer/letter every night for two and a half years straight. I listened to the saddest music, and the angriest music; I wrote in my blood, and pierced myself. It comforted me.
I comforted me.
Nothing anyone did for me mattered because no one did anything for me that mattered.
FIghting everything by myself was no easy task, because no one listened to me when I asked for help.
Justifying abuse done to myself was not ideal to deal with, by myself.
Trust me, I know. I’ve been there.
Listen to your child when they speak of something that bothers them. Otherwise, they’ll just try to fix themselves to no fixable point, and confuse your effort to gloss over it with no care.
I talk a lot. In fact, you probably thought I was okay talking about this.
I’d rather write it out.