You try to blow the whistle but only a faint sound comes out. “Something must be in there”, you think. Surely the problem has a scapegoat, that isn’t you. That thought may be your downfall.
Were always told it’s not our fault and by no means am I putting blame on anyone. I’m actually trying to encourage myself. Certain childhood memories were eating away at me. Moments of anger coming towards my way that still played in my head. I made half an effort to deal with this.
The laptop and TV are wonderful suppressants. Turn those things on and a person can lose any nightmare. This isn’t a cure though.
A real sound had to be made. My whistle was not broken or sabotaged. I was holding my own voice back. Finally I turned to my Mom for help. As long as their around, most mothers want to see you heal.
My secret story was released in high school. It was many years in the making. The epicness level was not perfect for all audiences though. My Dad received letters as part of this artistic breakthrough. That time in teenagerdom where some people self-medicate, and some people take real medicine. I made the better choice.
My parents and I had to deal with some past problems to better me. Nothing dire or lethal. Just memories that held me back. I was fortunate to have parents who wanted to take part in this. Even if they were forced to take a front row seat in the “Katelyn’s Mental State” show. If they hadn’t supported this event the whole process would have backfired. It would have been subject to some kind of poisonous substance that burned my insides. That’s the thing about opening up to people, even your parents, if it goes wrong you take the heat.
A few years later I had to do the same thing again. It had nothing to do with my childhood though. Current family problems concerning money, greed and dementia hit me hard. I felt like I was dying because of some extended family members. Within my damaged state I had something to perk me up though. An open relationship with my Mom in particular gave me a voice. I turned to my sister too. She felt the same pain, but sharing our thoughts healed the both of us. All my worries could be cast into the air and dissolved. My spirit rose up again, from under the rubble of family problems.
I’m a fortunate person. I had someone to talk to. I was able to bring up things that shaped me in a bad way. Problems that clung to me, or memories that didn’t want to leave the nest. For others they aren’t able to mention something bad that a person did to them. Stressful moments are meant to be ignored in their world. So many agree with that method, but it’s a harmful thing. When the victims in that scenario have a struggle they are then forced to go it alone. That’s a toxic life. A sound has to be made. Hotlines, school counselors and clinics exist for a reason. No matter how strong you are silence is an awful thing.