ROTTING
The only thing worse than raw emotion is ancient emotion, rotting away inside your brain like a diseased rat in a gutter.
Would you actually dare to take a look inside your mind, to think of those ghosts from your past that fuck you up entirely and jeopardize your clinical sanity?
Could you handle going back and reliving a past trauma, inhaling its every wound, knowing that it would only be worse given your current understanding and the fact that it had inhabited your memory and infested your very soul?
I fucking can’t.
I’ll admit here and now that the majority of my past has been illustrated as a series of comedies, primarily created by my own ill-repute and ice queen stance. But - if I really were a cold, hard, evil bitch, I doubt I’d be posting on Love Is A Cunt at all.
There are things that I chose to forget a long time ago… things I won’t revisit. I didn’t let them fester in my cranium because I knew even back then how fucked up they were.
When someone says or does things to you that you know no-one should ever have to deal with, you don’t sit there regurgitating them in games of truth or dare.
It’s events like those that I’ll never tell anyone, since (a) I’m ashamed, (b) I don’t want to remember, and (c) I think it would take me right back to where I started. And I’ve come a long way since then.
The answer? Don’t let things rot in your head. Don’t tell anyone about the severe fuck-ups. If you keep them quiet, they might just disappear.
Until you decide to write about them, albeit very elusively, on Love Is A Cunt. And it might just scare the shit out of you just how much it still fucks you up.
Would you actually dare to take a look inside your mind, to think of those ghosts from your past that fuck you up entirely and jeopardize your clinical sanity?
Could you handle going back and reliving a past trauma, inhaling its every wound, knowing that it would only be worse given your current understanding and the fact that it had inhabited your memory and infested your very soul?
I fucking can’t.
I’ll admit here and now that the majority of my past has been illustrated as a series of comedies, primarily created by my own ill-repute and ice queen stance. But - if I really were a cold, hard, evil bitch, I doubt I’d be posting on Love Is A Cunt at all.
There are things that I chose to forget a long time ago… things I won’t revisit. I didn’t let them fester in my cranium because I knew even back then how fucked up they were.
When someone says or does things to you that you know no-one should ever have to deal with, you don’t sit there regurgitating them in games of truth or dare.
It’s events like those that I’ll never tell anyone, since (a) I’m ashamed, (b) I don’t want to remember, and (c) I think it would take me right back to where I started. And I’ve come a long way since then.
The answer? Don’t let things rot in your head. Don’t tell anyone about the severe fuck-ups. If you keep them quiet, they might just disappear.
Until you decide to write about them, albeit very elusively, on Love Is A Cunt. And it might just scare the shit out of you just how much it still fucks you up.
posted by A Girl Like Me | 10:58 pm
This sounds like you're advocating the sort of denial that I actively oppose. It's never good to store things up inside. It's better to get them out, and in so doing, accept them and deal with them - then you become the stronger, better person.
Surely this is what LIAC is all about as well? Posting the shit so it's out of your system?
(I do like the utterly sick symbolism, though)