So. I guess it’s time to say a thing or two.

I have to say…that it’s time…for me to begin to
accept…reflect…and heal. I’ve been rejecting all forms of
communications with my past…and it’s only been weighing more heavily
upon me…until I’m suffocated…without anywhere to turn.

I really had better resolve some things before they continue to grow
and fester and torture within me. The truth is…I don’t deal with
things. I don’t know how to. I shield, cloud and mask a great deal of
issues in my life…yet they linger…haunting and grey…and feeding
upon my every emotion…draining me of life. So at least…if I state
some facts…and keep them abreast in my mind…refrain from denying
pain…then the pain will begin to subside with time and acceptance.
For now…that’s all I can do. And it’s what I need to do. I can’t
humble myself to accepting the help of a therapist…and if I continue
in this way…I’ll end up tearing myself open with a rugged knife and a
bottle of memories.

I suppose. I should start inwards…work my way out. Examine what it is that I am at this point…

I am. A daughter. I am. Torn. Abandoned. Hurt. Decieved. Alone.
Violated. Unwanted. Loved. Desperate. Juvenile. Older. Hopeful. I am. A
child. A dancer. An actress. A student. A writer. A romantic.
Fundamentally and above all else…I am. Alive. Never once in my life…or
since this terrible ordeal have I ever doubted my determination to keep
living…sense of purpose…nor questioned my existence. There remains no single shred of
suicidal nature in my body. The optimism helps with survival.

I am a child. Very much so a bubbling little girl. A terrified, quaking
individual. Full of wonder and indignant dreams and hopes. And very
much afraid of abandonement. Well I was abandoned. The period of growth
between letting go of childhood and accepting maturation was a crucial
part of my life…yet I’m sure I still house a great deal of fear and
insecurity within me…and still a great deal of innocent fascination
with the world. However…I’m not entirely sure if this is truly how I
feel…or whether I’m just recapitulating all that pshycology seems to
want us to believe is typical…normal…and abnormal in the same.
Perhaps I refute that. Maybe I’m not sure. All I know…is that
somewhere…whether I acknowledge her or not…a child Lauren is still
very much alive.

So then I am a budding teenager. Youthful and brimming with angst. Forlorn. Rebellious. And aching to break free.

innate

My father stems the vast majority of my scars and
battlewounds…inflicting woe for years upon years. He bullied
me…denied me…and deceived me…all of us. Even in childhood he
ignored me…was gone for a great amount of the time…but not long
enough that I could detach myself from him…he was very much my
father…and I very much idolized him and admired him…loved him…yet
I did recieve the same nuture. With time…and abuse…he slowly and
steadily lost my respect…to the point at which he exhausted my
respect and adoration…and he was merely a man…a caretaker…but no
longer a father. He was not characteristically cold…yet unforgiving
and fierce…raging battles and taking out his anger on us. I’m sure I
paint a much harsher image of him in mind at times…because it’s much
easier to accept such treatment from a tainted image rather than a
sheer complex father. Yet it cannot truly be said that he’s
complex…he shows a great deal of natural human complexities…yet he
seems deep seated in Perhaps, on the surface he appears to be a
ruthless, black hearted womanizer…when truthfully, beneath it
all…he’s really an insecure little boy without fulfillment. Maybe I’m
done with analysation and suppositions. Maybe…All in all…the truth
is…my father…is dead.
He is not only gone from my life…but gone from the universe. To deal
and in some twisted way..grieve…I disguised many aspects and memories
of my father in certain lights…whether harsher to soothe or sweeter
to agonize…yet in the end…I think the fact is such…my father is
actually…despite many things…human. At some point or another…he
cared…cared about our family…and life…and the pursuit of a full
and lush life…rather self-centered and with a strange display of
manners…but essentially good…and he was terrified of age…and in
seeing life’s true character….fled. I suppose he’s merely just a weak
man. Weak and rotten. So he made a crucial mistake. Or rather…series
of mistakes. No no. What am I saying…this doesn’t seem to make sense.
None of this seems to make sense. Here I am again…trying to
guise…explain…or give reason to some unjustified…cruel act
of….nature…fate…God…who knows. Maybe he just lost his mind.
Maybe he never had a heart. I just can’t seem to reconcile to the man I
thought I knew…and the man I knew now. Not with any sort of natural
and logical meaning. Perhaps…in this matter…at this time…there is
no answer…and there doesn’t need to be. For my own self preservation
and healing…perhaps it’s not necessary to understand his
motives…but more so…my rationale…my emotions…and how this has,
and continues to effect me. In the end…my father showed himself to
care nothing for family and imprinted a growing and bloody scar on my
flesh. I resent it for him greatly. And yet…I don’t hate him. Of all
my desperate emotions cast around thoughout this experience…I have
yet to feel or express any great anger for him. For months even, after
he left, I…while I did not deny sadness and despair…refused to face
him…in any real light…I refused to admit to him my great
sorrow…disappointment…and utter horror in him. Practically fear.
This period of denial seemed deranged, yet fully comprehensible…and
naturally…I grew out of it eventually…but only when my father’s
actions directly effected me…and I was personally being attacked.

ANGER.

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