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I have to stop whining about my past. I have to let it go. It’s over. It wasn’t my fault. I know this. I know that I was just a child. I know I couldn’t stop my father, He beat my mother. He beat me. Those things happened. I have to just face it and move on with my life. I can’t let this poison my entire existence.
It wasn’t really that bad, my childhood. My dad was violent, sure. He used to tickle me until I would vomit. He would tickle me until I beg him to stop it. I couldn’t breath. I couldn’t take anymore. Please, daddy, no more.
But a lot of people have it worse. I know this. I hear about it all the time. I attract the wounded. I meet wounded people all the time. They find me. If I sit in a park for more than an hour, a wound person will be talking to me. I love their stories. I am so attentive.
Then I write about them. I show them their own beauty. They love me. Their lives have been harder than mine. I know this. My stories can’t compare. I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for whining. I have to stop doing that soon. I have to stop crying. I have to stop my hands from shaking. I have to stop convulsing in my sleep. I have to stop remembering what it felt like to be beaten. I have to stop remembering the night my mother almost died. I have to get over it. It’s in the past. It’s over. I shouldn’t feel this way anymore.
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