diary entry ten

the most uncomfortable part of this season is to have old haunts come calling, asking for their payments and coins because it has been long overdue.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

i don’t know how to face it and pay up.

it’s the one that never comes up— that one thing people tiptoe around, but like i said, they have come calling.

and i’ll tell you that i never expected to be telling this story, and sometimes it still doesn’t feel like it’s my story, because how could it have happened to me?

i’m still checking the receipt, events that occurred, to see maybe what i’d missed.

i think i’m prolonging this because i don’t know how to talk about it.

because they’ll judge and talk.

they always will.

but the one thing that has to come from this is forgiveness— to forgive yourself, because why wouldn’t you blame the one that let them in?

i’m not there yet.

it’s this old story that you look back on and it doesn’t quite make sense anymore.

the pictures seem vague and come in flickered moments that aren’t as clear as you’d structured it to be.

i guess this was a waste because i still don’t know how to talk about it.

i still don’t know how to explain it, and explain it in its rawness and the sensitivity that it deserves because it’s not quite funny anymore.

but i remember her and her being there.

i remember her trying to silence the noise, because this noise didn’t want to stop.

i remember laying in her bed and that one rain video she had played because she knew how important it was to sleep— to just sleep.

and even then, the noise wouldn’t listen— so adamant on breaking down that purple door.

i remember drifting off and trying to explain but the rain, the noise and then the tiredness of it all.

this noise was really loud.

it wouldn’t listen.

i don’t think it ever did.

could it not hear my noise?

i don't know.

he said he was confused. but i wasn’t.

i promise, i wasn’t confused, i never was and i never have been.

the noise made me confused, it still does.

i guess that’s why i laughed and sometimes, just sometimes, it still makes me laugh.

“We have to talk about it.”

the eldest of us called me, scared and thinking she couldn’t let the robber get away.

she couldn’t understand why i was going back to try and fix it, i didn’t either.

maybe i was trying to fix what they did.

maybe.

i’m in a place where i ask if He knew when it happened and why He had let it happen.

i don’t have an answer for this and i’m not sure i ever will. but i can write about it and write it for you.

i think it’s okay to make it your story because someone someday will need to hear it.

i promise.

m.d.☁️