Irritation

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How do you know when you have been irritated so far that nothing seems to cure it? I mean for a second you feel a brief moment of security within yourself, but only to a point that your gritted teeth seem to lose taste of reasoning. Your fingers shake from any thought of movement, your eyes crack of fear for your reaction, and your breathing so shallow that your mind actually believes the light-headed result only seems normal to those that aren’t really observant.

Is the pregnancy driving me to this irritant? Is my mind feeling overwhelmed by the consequences that follow me from a skeleton so big even Wes Craven would be speechless? Cappuccino only seems to be a slight variation of a cure to my explosion of thoughts that just cry out for attention. All the caffeine in the world may kill my unborn and would only push aside the anger that creates this irritation. To have such a blessing upon me from just after my birthday and then one of the world’s worst killers come out and seem to bite me in the ass from selfishness of not wanting irritation….

Maybe I’m just a little loose in the head or a screw flew out unexpectedly… Maybe the fears of my past come to everlastingly haunt me for my actions that resulted in my own punishment… Maybe her words just won’t leave me alone or even just give me a break from that reality that I’ve grown up with. .. Maybe I will find the strength to stand up and just face that growing mirror image from years ago till now… Maybe I will look myself in the eyes and just finally get the energy… confidence… and gumption to let it all go…

The irritation comes and goes more often since the pregnancy and the pressure to continue making her happy and content grows even more. I have so many truths that come to surface when someone cares about me enough to make me bite the bullet and face the torture that I’ve done so well to make myself forget. With all the alcohol and drugs and sexual content I’ve been brought into and drug through, there’s still all the violence that I would get blamed for. I still got beat to more than tears when things didn’t make sense to the adults. I got held responsible. I got the flyswatter beatings. I got the whacks to the head. I got the blame. I got the silent knowledge that it didn’t matter and no one cared. Now years later it all seems to creep back up on me… from what, but me fighting for my son from what is more than a psycho and pervert.

You would think those parts in those movies where everyone is on the edge of their seats saying, “How can she say that?” and “you’ve got to be kidding me!” would only be in those movies right? You would hope right? Well, so did I until I finally just woke up and faced the fact that I was abused too. I’ve always seen my mother in the best light possible no matter what anyone else ever said or tried to show me. I always forgave her for all the blame, ignorance, drunkenness, sexual contact I had to face, and the abuse. I tried to make myself believe that I was the bad child. I guess in a sense we all do that. We all kind of hope to find a reason to just believe that everyone is mistaken and just doesn’t know what they are talking about.

Even after all that pain and agony that rests inside and seems to claw its way out when mentioning of it comes around. Sure there’s that fake smile and the shrug off motion that comes off like “yeah right”. However in the end you just sit in silence to yourself trying hard not to let yourself admit that it wasn’t your fault and the way you were raised is NOT normal. Going to church for those few hours always saved for just a brief time enough to swallow hard and just breathe for a moment in all the singing and prayer until it almost seems like a hiding obsession. You end up going everyday of the week as many hours as you can stay just begging for more projects to help with and more assistance to be held. Just so you can find another reason to tell them you won’t be home. Even as you are telling them they still call you a liar and still you get in trouble just for their own ignorance.

I don’t know if I was alone in this struggle, but I know that I’m not now. I’ve been through some of the worst abuse out there by the time I was 12. The only marriage I knew cursed me to 4 years of sexual torture by a man I was to call my husband. Then after all that I still lost my son and I’m still the enemy. I’m still the one that doesn’t do drugs, I’m still the one that doesn’t drink, I’m still the one that married before having a child, I’m still the one that lets everyone walk all over me, and I’m still the one that gets the blame.

So why am I irritated? Why does my mind scream and why do my hands shake? I’ve not narrowed it down far enough to just one reason, but I can tell you this…

Irritation kills…