Bloody Tampons, Uterus, and a Child Wrought from Turmoil

My coworker thinks I need therapy.

Who the hell doesn’t?

It was kind of strange, though, describing my life experiences to my previous therapist. After my abusive relationship with Joe, I decided to make the effort into seeing a therapist.

I have to tell you all something. For a long time, I hated my family line. I hated the fact that I couldn’t seem to achieve any happiness inside and outside myself. I hated my sister for being pregnant the first time—and wished she didn’t keep the baby.

She lost her first pregnancy.

In a sense, I felt relief. I felt relief knowing that something so pure and innocent would be brought into a family that was forged from strength, but also racked with pain, sorrow, and hurt.

The truth of it is, my family…my mom, my sister, and I come from a long history of struggle. I’m not ashamed to say I grew up poor, and I don’t think anyone should be. I digress…

When I started going to therapy, I unfortunately had to face some hard truths in terms of who I was, my decisions, and how I could change. As I previously noted, I spent seven, wasted years trying to please a narcissistic sociopath. The rollercoasters of emotion were what I thought were true love in action. Very wrong. It ain’t that, and it sure as fuck isn’t getting forced into being fucked in the back seat of a car. Long story short, I was attracted to the chaos.

It didn’t click with me until after that was over, that I didn’t really want chaos, but I wanted to feel comfortable. What’s comfortability, but the very thing that’s followed you into adulthood. I saw my father and mother fight at age 3 and that was the only memory to date that I can recant. I saw chaos at a young age, and I saw chaos well into my adult years. When we grow older, we try to pretend that our childhoods don’t follow us like the children we once were, but the only difference is—that shadow being cast is now you, and not that figure of innocence anymore.

Life has a funny way of slapping you in the face when you least expect it, and I didn’t realize until yesterday—that broken, little girl is still there…in everything that I do.

The blood, the gore, the piss, the guts—it is that little Cory that was angry she never got a chance. And, I think in some sense of irony, she knows now she HAS a chance.

You see, we all come from something that’s torn us in half and left us mangled for the buzzards to pick at, but transmuting that broken child (in my case) into a big, scary beast is like confronting the boogie man. Granted, it’s been a hell of a time trying to rest, settle, and get back into my art, but that inner child (right now) needs a little rest.

All this blood that I love so dearly was once a little girl who watched so much pain around her, that the blood she sheds now is an allegory, for the pieces of the past she’s choosing to throw away.

You can never fully throw away your past, the memories; the pain of losing a parent and being blamed for it, but you can choose to manifest all that aggression into something that feels like a purge.

I found out that I didn’t really hate my family, and my niece is pretty damn cool. I just hated who I was, and the life that I assigned myself to; however, it really is a choice to see the light when the dark wants to hold you tightly. But, with all things there’s balance. Without total darkness, there can be no radiating light.

Reflection, patience, rest, meditation, and recharge is absolutely necessary, and we owe it to ourselves, my family. 🩸💜