What if.

What if all the words I have said, will be all the words I will ever say?

But instead of saying them in a certain order they become a jumbled mess. I have thoughts so often that consume me, but I don’t want to say them out loud. I don’t want to scream from the rooftops the truth about the way things have been for me – because I have been told that it selfish. By speaking my mind about certain things I am only thinking about myself.

So I refrain. And I don’t write anymore because my writing is fueled by what’s going on inside of me. And sometimes I think that people hate my guts when they don’t. And sometimes maybe people do hate me. And sometimes I have dark thoughts because I think that I will always feel this way. But how can I be able to tell the truth if it will hurt people in the end.

It is so cryptic. My life is consumed with never feeling like I am good enough. My life is devoted to serving others because it makes me feel happy, because humans deserve love – but it started because I wanted to prove that I am not a bad person. I am not a bad mom. I am not a bad daughter. I am not a bad sister. I am not a bad employee. I am not a bad friend.

But still to this day I am reminded that I failed as a mom. Because I didn’t fight harder. But how do you fight without resources, with nobody in your corner, with no money? I was sick. I was consumed with the suicide of my big brother. I was trying to better our life by going to university. I was trying to live off the basic student loan amount. I was trying to be better but I was living in poverty.

I thought I had no rights as a human being because I was a drug user. I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. I didn’t have the resources to stop.

But nobody tells the truth about what the situation really was like. Could I have made it if he wasn’t in the picture for that first while? I don’t know, but I wouldn’t have had access to the drugs. Everyday I look back and I am hurting so deeply. I am upset. I am angry. I feel so much resentment that it is making me sick. I worry that when I die, I will still be sick with this.

So I continue to fight for others. For equality. For love. For human connection. Because inside I somehow feel like I am still living in my past and still trying to prove I am not a bad person.

I am not a bad person.