Writing is not coming natural anymore.
Stress is overwhelming and consuming me.
It’s beating me down, making everything dull and lifeless–
like a black and white photograph that has no depth or dimension.
I am forcing myself to write this.
Maybe It is supposed to make me feel.. better?
What is better? What is healing? What is acceptance? These all feel like foreign words.
I command thee..
Go find the words, where are they hiding!
Maybe they are there…. behind the scared mother.
Maybe they are there…. behind the helpless protector.
Maybe they are there…. hiding behind the disappointed parent.
Maybe they are there….lurking behind the anger that I can no longer control when we talk.
Maybe I am just speechless.. utterly shocked by your choices.
Will this ever stop…
Why are you blaming me?
Are you that confused?
Why don’t you want help?
Are you comfortable… being scattered and disheveled?
I did not make you take those pills.
I did not tell you to drink.
I did not force you to smoke.
Yet you blame me…
your anger, your defiance and your deliberate actions scream back at me,
that I am to blame.
I did not cause this!
You took this path!
You made these choices!
I am only reacting.
I don’t know how to do it any other way…