There are parts of me

There are times were I believe that no one will ever have an inkling of the precarious plight I live each day. No matter how many words I write or how many hours I write each day. I am a conundrum, a mystery even onto my self.

Each step I take towards healing is like walking into a burning building and smashing into walls. Each day I'm forced to decide whether to throw myself off a ten story building in order to attempt to make myself whole as all the pieces of myself exist in a craggy ravine far, far below and ten steps removed from reality.

I'm familiar with some parts of me. I am vaguely aware of the dozen child prostitutes my father sold or gave away to his friends. I'm aware of the dozen that were neglected and physically starved. I know of the dozen that were physically beaten and of the some of the ones that were tortured.

Recently I hear the rumblings of the dozen that were brutally raped by my father. And I question whether stepping closer to this deadly storm is worth the pain of reliving the egregious wounds. Maybe there are parts of me that I will never know. Maybe that is just plain safe and rather sane.

There are parts of me that never stop scream. They live within next to the group that never stops crying, right next to the parts that tremble and shake in constant unremitting pain.

My depths are unimaginable. My layers are astounding, interlocked and watertight.

No, you truly have no idea.

Part of me prays and wants to stop this healing rollercoaster and do nothing, and do nothing but art and live within the arms of my love. This pain, immeasurable. My experiences, too many. My abuses, too numerous and yet I must find a way to make it through this night and tomorrow's day.

The mundane and trivial functionality is but a confusion and circus in which I must at least appear to be a participating member.

I live broken, parts of me scattered on this level and in those basements, behind walls, hidden in attics and entrenched in darkened alleys of my mind, my past.

I may appear a shallow shell but I am really living within a house of many walls, floors and doors. The effort to get through each day is something you will never know. The baggage I carry, you will never see.

I am the greatest of mysteries. I am the loneliest of souls. I am truly one of kind that I pray no one can ever fully relate to.

I am but a vocal one in a being of many pained parts. I've been wounded and damaged by parents, those malfunctioning units that were entrusted to care for me. 

Now, each hour I must part these heavy clouds and walk into flames. 

This is my life. Never pretend or to deceive yourself in thinking you could possibly comprehend my madness. May you never feel even a fraction of this confusion and pain.

May you understand that i am in a constant state of heavy grief, unspoken pain and carrying memories that few can ever even partially tolerate.

I cannot imagine what your life is like as you can never ever fathom mine.