2am. The external silence makes the internal noise so much louder and intrusive.

Im tired. But where do I go?

And what to do with you, my mother. Who carried me and fed me. What happened? Where did it go wrong? Was it me you had a problem with or was I just a consequence of ……something? I don’t understand the unlove.

My story doesn’t make sense. How can two or three words from a book tell the story? Where are my words? At times I don’t have words, at time I can see the words but they don’t seem adequate to explain, at times I know the words but struggle to get them translated externally, at times i feel too disgusting or ashamed or threatened or afraid to say them. At times I think my words will harm so have to keep them away from people.

You loved me? You loved me more than my mother loved me? That I was special? Only special people can do this and one day I will understand?

Oh hang on. That I had a funny face? That I wasn’t the smart one? That I never tried hard enough? And that I’m just like my mother? Can I be trusted?

But my mother said I was just like you? Moody, knock kneed, sneaky and not to be trusted. Oh yes, and particularly ungrateful. Ungrateful to her for bringing me into this world and providing a good home. Always ungrateful.

You probably did love me.

He is locked in a room, or a cell, and left there to die. And he knows that people know he is there, yet they are not helping him in any way.

His mouth is stuffed with paper. He is sitting in a chair with his hands held by his side. More paper is pushed into his mouth, he can’t breathe, he starts to choke. I don’t need to be there to see him die, as longs as I know he does.

The papers contain my words. My words of anger and hate and hopelessness and wrongs.

A gun most definitely. Pointing at him for a long time and him knowing it. No words needed.

The power of the trigger is with me and I savour it. Until I start pulling it towards me.

Its done, the first mark is made. The first of several. Legs. Hands. Genitals. Before I no longer want to be near him and I give him one final mark in the mouth.

And I walk away, having transferred anger and disgust and fear to him.

Why do have a need to talk about what he did? What do I really think it will lead to? A freedom – I don’t think so; understanding – probably not; strength in numbers – no; retribution – perhaps. Understandably though, it’s not a conversation or process anyone wants to have, particularly not the disjointed and slow way that I seem only to be capable of.

I feel bad about writing now. I feel I have put an obligation out.

And it’s not good enough. I know that’s ridiculous. But I now feel certain requirements about the writing, not sure what they are, so of course whatever I write or do is not adequate.

I need to know when there is nothing more that can be done for me and when the end will be called, how imminent is it?

So much I would like to write, but I am not able to stop the filter.

My mind is like a cave or collection of caves. Visitors can only be shown to a certain depth, and then it’s a no go zone. Some of the caves I have not even visited. I would like to be able to shine light in there and banish the dark. I would like to have someone see the caves and say they look normal, or even beautiful. But I am also afraid of the caves and of other s seeing what is in them. That they will run.

Thinking about how to be ‘better’ at therapy. I want to be better. I’m afraid I will become stuck and am just treading water. Waiting. For what?

I want: to to feel real happiness; freedom; to not be afraid of myself; to be comfortable and like myself; to feel genuine. How. I’m not sure I am working to that?