I can't write for shit anymore...

My good deed of the day...

Not kicking my mother in the head.

What happened?

What happened to me?

I used to be so…different…

I don’t know what happened.

Deciding to journal again, and see how that works out, I can’t seem to write for shit anymore, reading over my old journal/diary stuff is actually painful to see how good it was, even if I can still pick it apart and it sucks, but…there was still good stuff there, I can barely write more than a page any more and I don’t like it.

And my therapist says journaling is a good thing right?

So, I hope to write at least a little something here every day/week for however long it takes. Even if it’s just about my life or whatever. Something. Even if it’s nothing but me tearing myself down, I need to get into the habit of writing, and perhaps I’ll have something to show for it when I’m done.

Ring around the Rose

I've been remembering more. Things I don't want to remember...I forgot these things for a reason. 

I hurt him again

I had another…night terror. It was like all the others,  Peter and I are together, alone, and we're—sharing our feelings for one another. We're—kissing, touching, and Peter is murmuring to me, telling me that he…loves me. And then...then it changes. It always changes and…and they are there. They take me away, and Peter stands by and encourages them. I fight; I try to get away, but there are too many of them, and Peter does nothing; he stands back and laughs...and they take me; they hurt me, while he watches and enjoys it.

Only this time it was different...yet the same, if that makes sense. 

Peter stepped away, a smirk on his face, his eyes hard and cold, empty of the light of love  that had been in them only moments before. “Take him.” He nodded to a group of shadowy figures. “Do what you want with him; he can take it. This useless freak is tough.”

“Peter…” I reached out a hand (as I always seem to do) and Peter took another step back, his face filled with revulsion.

 

“Peter, no!” The figures stepped forward, blocking Peter from my sight, hard, cold hands started grabbing me, painfully wrenching my arms, bruising flesh. With the last of my strength, I lashed out, striking, fighting, even though I knew it was useless, knew that they would win, that my cries of pain would fade because they would win; they would take me and use me and...

And then I woke up...Peter was bleeding on the floor. I hurt him. Again. 

Why am I so violent?