It's as if somewhere in time you forgot all of the things that you once were. Things change, people grow, captured moments in time sear your heart and the pangs ripple on somewhere deep in the conscious of your soul.
I can't even look at old photos anymore.
They all just bring me regret. A big wave of shame washes over me as I remember the moments captured and what they could have been. But instead of being present in them, the memories of pain and of constantly trying to remove myself from the reality that I fought for years is prominent in my heart.
I made the decision to destroy my life because something deep inside of me knew that it would never be the same. I thought I had it perfect. I thought I was going with the flow so well. It didn't seem fair that in an instant my life would never be what I wanted it to be.
All of every dream and hope I ever had was washed away in less than an instant.
The photos of the last nine years are memories that every time I smiled into the camera, that every pixel that if I were anyone else would look as if my life was good and that I was happy, hide the fact that I spent the majority of those years self-destructing. And not only that, I took the people closest to me with me.
As if my destruction needed to be shared.
My family stands now. But we are not unscathed. We are not untouched by my stubborn determination to cling to and have the life that I should have gotten, the life I wanted. And I am the only one to blame.
It's not that I feel entitled to any specific life. I don't. I wasn't expecting to be such a young mother. I wasn't expecting to be such a young wife. But I rolled with it. I allowed it. I had a good attitude. You'd think that would account for something...
But all of the photos of my boys growing, all of the photos of when they were babies, don't show me the joy and the fun of raising newborns and toddlers like the erroneous images would imply.
All I see when I look at those photos is the shame. The self destruction. The unwillingness to accept that my life was forever changed and that I fought it. I fought reality with destruction. And the stabbing knife of the hands of the clock finally caught up with me.
Now all I have for the past is the shame. Now all I see in the photos is the way I rebelled against the universe, only smiting myself the entire time. Only wasting my precious time that my daughter got so little of.
Now I don't have the good, "normal" memories of my family and my boys growing up.
I'm left with the bittersweet taste of shame and self hatred. I thought of all the things...I thought I could get through...Everyone thought that I was so strong. When really, I was just bringing everyone down with me.
I don't know if I deserve to live. Maybe it should have been her instead of me. I lost not only her, but myself, I lost not only myself but memories that could have been good.
No wonder I've been thinking about death a lot lately. No wonder I believe I deserve to die.
