I’m sorry

I looked at myself, and I began to realize that I have a long road ahead of me.

I have to apologize in advance for all the relationships I am going to intentionally stop because I have nothing to give.

I’m sorry but I can’t get as close to you as I thought I could. I open up the file that holds all of my sorrow within it, and I reminded that somehow, I am inadequate.
So I sabotage whatever relationship may be blossoming into something more than I can handle because it’s about my emotional and physical safety more than anything. It’s about learning how to smile again, and it’s about understanding to never give myself to someone again.

I’m sorry but I can’t trust you right from the get go. I know you will walk on the outside of the sidewalk when we go down the street, and I know you would stop at that red light rather than run it, but I can’t give you that part of me that yields trust. I can’t believe that you aren’t doing something that would make me upset, and I can’t believe that you would stick by me in a time when I am no longer who I am.
So I can’t trust you.

I’m sorry, but I can’t love again. I know that feeling of defeat and that feeling of turmoil when the world comes crashing around you. I know what it feels like to hear, ‘never again.’ And to protect myself, I can’t learn to love you the way it is deserved.
I can’t go through a second heartbreak. I can’t lose my family again. I can’t sit in a dark room and contemplate my life.
I won’t.

I’m sorry but I know you don’t understand what kind of path I walked down. I kissed death on the cheek, danced with the angels who were there to take me at a moments breath. But I opened my eyes. I opened my eyes and I can’t understand that the world around me is my true reality. I can’t understand how I am breathing. I don’t believe that I’m here, and I’m sorry, but I know as much as I try to pinch myself, I never wake up to the person who I was before I went under anesthesia.

So I’m sorry. I’m still trying to figure out how to walk into a crowded room and not feel like I am a target. I can’t feel safe in a classroom without sitting in the chair next to the wall; I can’t introduce myself to someone without visibly shaking; I can’t figure out how to be the confidant person I was before the letters PTSD were branded cross my forehead.

 

 

 

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