Thank You, You’ve Saved Me

I know that most of the material I write of you is negative. I’m sure by now you’ve stumbled upon my blog or my articles to find scraps of poetry buried deep within the endless paragraphs, words that were secretly designed to destroy you. Yes, it’s true. Most of those words are negative. But that’s only because when I am writing them, I am trying to relive the experience as authentically as I can. I’m sorry if the truth, once written, is just too much for you to handle.

However, I have not yet written anything that shows you my unrelenting gratitude for all your wrongdoings and the pain inflicted onto me. See, I have since then culminated a renegade out of this Nice Girl and I haven’t looked back since. I guess you can say that you’ve saved me — in reverse. It took meeting you to realize that I was giving back to the hand that choked me, so I took all the gentle inside of me and turned it into a rock. It is there to remind me that I am still here, so thank you.

If it were not for you, I would not have had the guts to let myself come undone and the courage to put myself back together again, to come out more powerful and stubborn than ever. You showed me how easily I could let my entire mind and world wrap around one single being, so I buried myself in my own skin making sure no one ever gets near it again. I found a hiding spot for all my insecurity and evolved into my most resilient self because of you, so thank you.

All the nights you made me feel as small as your empathy, I took and carved them into a blanket and each night it reminds me to be cautious of who I let in. You showed me how quickly I could lose my voice when I am made to believe it is not important, so I became loud and boisterous making sure everyone can always see me. I took all the loveless love and sculpted twenty different lovers out of it. Each of them exposing me to a different kind of pain, but never abuse. I learned how to recognize the difference, so thank you.

I remember when I used to feel like a skeleton inside other people’s beds, but how with you I was only ever an empty casket. The skeleton in the other room, calling for help. But no one could hear me.

This is my way of saying, “It’s okay. I’m fine. I’m actually better.”