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Why talk about it now? He’s been doing fine this whole time. He is fine. Nothing to talk about. No need to delve deep into shit that happened so long ago. He has moved on from that shit so long ago. Doesn’t matter that the self-hatred and self-blaming was even worse than back then. It doesn’t matter that he feels shame when he tries to feel good about his body. It really doesn’t matter that getting close to someone is hard and he questions every single one of their intentions, that it takes him years before he actually somewhat believes their words. It seriously doesn’t matter that he can’t deal with people raising their voice just the slightest without tensing up. It doesn’t matter.
So, why talk about it now? Was it really bothering him that bad? Was it clear to everyone else how much he struggled? Was he that bad at hiding it? Or had he ran his mouth again? Let down his guard and his brain pushing words out of his mouth, happy that the thick wall usually stopping them was finally gone? Did he smile wrong that hinted at the turmoil underneath? Was it not plastered on long enough?
Why now? Can’t it wait another ten or even fifteen years? He did so well with hiding it for so many years. Must it happen now?
He doesn’t want to dig into it. Into the filth that hid behind in the corner of his mind. The shame, the guilt, and the hatred. It was a monster begging to be let out and he had made sure to keep it locked up tight. A filthy monster that would drag down anyone close. Would ruin every relationship he has. Once he spills out every single part that he hates about himself he could never return to the blissful ignorance. He would finally have to face himself, that young kid, and fully go through what happened.
His hand squeezes at the thought. His throat feels dry and tight. Looking down at his hands, they’re shaky. He wants to run. To hide. To disappear. His heart is beating unusually fast, he can feel it in his unsteady hands.
Why talk about it now?
He’s fine. It doesn’t affect him anymore. He can ignore it. He’s fine. It is all fine. No need to dive deeper into the memories. No need, he says with a fake smile. It’s all fake. It is all gray. So gray. Only fleeting moments of happiness, short-lived laughs, tiny smiles. Gray.
He doesn’t want to talk about it. So why ask? Why try to dig into the ugly parts no one wants to see? The shame is real, why try to unearth it? The uneasiness is in the corner of his eyes, why point it out? The silence should speak for itself.
He’s fine.
The memory made his blood freeze, each cell crystallising and stopping the flow making his hand tingle and feel numb. His heart working overtime to keep the blood flowing, hammering wildly and sporadically.
His mind was no help. Asking a stone would be more helpful. It kept reminding him of exactly what happened. Everything leading up to it. Each misstep he took. Each wrong choice. Every chance to turn back he didn’t take. It kept reminding him how desperate he was back then. The feeling of helplessness, the need to feel somewhat normal. How all of that led him here. Now struggling with each sharp piece that seemed to infect him so deep it festered in his marrow.
He’s fine.
He’s gotten good at lying too. While things were falling apart and they both went through dark times, he would paint on a smile for his friends. Would say “Me and the hamster are doing amazing!!” Now the codename for the guy felt silly, but that’s what felt cool to his 13 year old brain. He would feed them lies upon lies to the point the web had trapped him. He’d gotten so good at lying he almost believed himself sometimes and stupidly went back to her. It only served him more anguish and self-hatred.
He’d been lying to his own parents, too ashamed to speak into air that he had gone against internet safety and got tangled up in the shitstorm that he was in. He, who had always been praised for how well he navigated the online spaces. He, who only a few weeks prior had been so proud when reporting a creep in a game and told his mother like the good kid he was. Now look at him. Fucked up over some shitstorm from almost a whole decade ago. Where had he abandoned all caution? Was it the desperation that blindsided him? Or was it a combination of so many things that could only result in such a crash and burn? Or maybe it really was all his fault? He didn’t ever have a gun pointed at his head.
The fault, at least some of it, must lay on his shoulders. It was two people. He lied too. He had so many opportunities to turn away, yet he never did. It must lay on his shoulders too. No matter how much he tries to twist it, at least some fingers must be pointed at him. In the end of the bruning, he was the manipulative one. Was it just an accumulation of the shit he had to deal with? Or was it his true colours? Was that who he really was?
He’s fine.
It’s all fine because he managed to process it. In a clinical view he could perhaps see how not everything is his fault. That he can’t control the actions of another person with a whole ocean between them. Each beat he has repeated over and over again in his mind. But the second the feelings start to creep in, trying to resurface, he stops. He stops it all abruptly so hard that his own brain would get a whiplash and doesn’t think about it for a while. Too exhausted and unguarded to do it safely. Doing it unguarded means panic and panic means death. It’s unsafe to let the feelings seep into the memories when he goes through them. He can’t even let himself actually feel the full brunt of the emotions attached to each memory. That’s just asking for death for a tea party on a random Wednesday evening. He’s dumb, but he’s not stupid.
It’s all fine. Because he’s managed to find ways to survive the days. Survive, huh? That sounds too extreme. He’s managed to find ways to not think about it. To pretend that it never happened. To live like no mistakes happened. Yet, that stupid, slimy, and ballooning shame creeps up on him in his most vulnerable moments. Even his unassuming ones. That shame that used to be so tiny but fed on his refusal to acknowledge it. Fed on his attempts to smile through its slimy arms. Like nothing was wrong. The slime had started to ooze insecurity. The plume would choke his lungs while shame would cover his mouth and nose. Tears will fall down his face and the slimy monster will laugh with an echo that stirs panic, making it run rabid in his stomach.
He’s fine.
No one can always fix what’s broken. Sometimes it’s just meant to be left broken. Unable to fit the broken puzzle pieces back together, too worn down to click in place, some corners torn off in anger or maybe even boredom.
He’s always been a broken human being. Looked at himself more as a robot than a human. Just a thing going through the motions that mimic that of a human. Always observing what others are doing and clumsily coping it, the motions always feeling awkward and unfamiliar. Maybe that’s why it happened to him. A punishment. Telling him how he failed at playing human, now he must suffer like one too. Joints rusting along with his mind, falling apart bit by bit each day.
He’s fine.
Nothing can top the horror of the realisation of the situation he had gotten himself into. The sudden clarity and sharpness of the world when he came to. The blurriness of day by day suddenly gone, and crystal clarity slapping right in his face. The shock then horror and despair that slowly turned into disgust that melted into shame. Then the hatred showed its face. And all he wanted to do was die. He didn’t care for who found him. He just wanted to die. Wanted to leave the world forever. How could he allow himself to end up in this situation? How could he ever let someone drag him along like this? How? How? How? Why him? He was just a kid. Wasn’t it obvious in the pictures he sent? He was just a kid. Wasn’t it clear through the text that he was so young? He was just a kid. Yet, he had never felt so old at that moment. He wanted to die, so he turned to the only thing that had kept him sane for the last year, the blade. Feeling the blood pooling with each line helped, gave him clarity.
He could feel the memory in his fingers.
He’s fine.
Yet guilt and shame trudged along. They hung heavy on his shoulders, whispering venom whenever he was unguarded. Sinking deeper down into hatred. Towards himself? Towards her? Towards anything? He let the guilt and shame fester like an infection wound. Not saying a word. Putting on the biggest performance yet, for years. He played his role so well that he almost tricked himself. Almost. The second someone mentioned romance he’s reminded of his failures and how weak he was. Yet he kept his mouth shut and rarely engaged in those conversations. When he was forced to participate he easily lied, they spilled out effortlessly and it was enough to satiate his friends. The “break up” with her was told to his friends as uneventful and them just drifting apart. Though he mostly forgot how that conversation went as he got older.
Whenever the topic of an abuse or awful partner his shame would surface. He would try to stay supportive and understanding without fully revealing his own ugly side. He couldn’t do it. Not yet at least. He was still young, not even 18 when he started to contemplate telling his mother. He had always been close to her and she would listen to his other struggles, but this one was a hard one to get out. Thorns would appear on the words and scratch his throat when he tries to force them out, making him choke in the guild oozing out from the open wounds. So he shut his mouth and kept his head low. No matter how tempting it would be, the words were hard to get out.
His brain was another obstacle in trying to share. Whenever he would try to talk to someone about it he would space out, feel like he was drifting away from his body. Like someone put a screen in front of his mind and he was watching it all on the sideline, like an outsider in his own body. It gets harder the more he tries to push through it, walking in thick sludge doing everything it can to keep him from going forwards. Wrapping its tendrils around his limbs and pulling back, pulling harder the more he resists and tries to take a step forwards. It exhausts him and he has to yield to the sludge of his mind. It keeps him from trying to talk about it for a while. Letting everything rest.
He’s fine.
He is alone in all of this. None to share with. Everything feeling unreal, and thoughts he’d rather not face. What happened was his fault either way. He could’ve easily just left yet he was desperate. Desperation is a fickle thing. Made him do stupid things that left him with wounds that would never heal, they would just get infected over and over again the more the poked at it.
What gave him the nerve to place himself at the same height at those who experienced rape. It didn’t count for him, it was all online. So how dare he.
He’s fine.
He almost spoke the words to a professional once but instead sabotaged himself and never went back.
He’s fine.
He tried telling his best friend but they only got the spark notes and jokes to lighten the mood. He hates being the one to drag down the mood. He worked so hard not to be such a pessimist anymore.
He is fine.
The older he gets the more it affects him. Leaving the shame to grow and fester to the point he can’t ignore it anymore. It seeped into everything. How he words himself. How he interacts with other people. How he carefully picks apart every sentence and tries to twist it to see what the intentions were.
He is fine.
When the words couldn’t come out of his mouth, he wrote them down with fervour. All of the emotions come rushing out, all the ugly and uncomfortable feelings that had been weighing down on his chest making it hard to breathe at times. Sometimes he wanted to break his ribs to get to his heart and stomp and cut it for making him feel this way, to get out those ugly feeling, hideous after being ignored for so long.
Why must he talk about it? It doesn’t affect him that bad anymore.
Until he speaks the forbidden words out loud, memories resurface. He tries to joke, tries desperately to lighten the mood. It wasn’t that bad, the tells himself, trying to convince. Who he’s trying to convince is up for debate? Himself, or his therapist? Maybe both. But it’s useless. The words he never wanted to hear is hinted at. The conversation is steered into a specific way. He can tell where this is going and tries to put a stop to it.
He was never able to stop it. Each time he tried to shut it down, his therapist would push harder. It felt like he was spiraling in each session. Every time after he would cry because new memories would resurface. Each time he closes his eyes he would see the memories of the times he sent nudes to her. It made him return to an old friend, the blade.
He never told it to anyone he relapsed. It felt so good to be back to it once more. It had been years at this point, but the relief was immense in the moment. Some memories did flash through his mind. Specifically of the break up; how he had turned to the blade at that time too. Both times had given him a relief nothing else could’ve given him.
He’s fine.
He remembers how on camera she had shown him sealed pills, then popped a couple of them right in front of him — blamed it on him and the breakup. Why did he go back to her? Was he really that weak? Is he really that weak because he still wants to go back to her? The stable unstableness. How pathetic could he really be? Why did he think that opening his was going to fix anything? He just kept lying to his therapist. Saying things like “oh, I’m slowly letting go of the shame”. No he fucking wasn’t and still isn’t. He’s terrified of the person he will become once that shame isn’t there anymore. Will he like him?
He’s fine.
It doesn’t affect him as much anymore. It’s just a whisper in the back of his mind. He’s lying. He’s not. It’s all better now. He was stupid enough to open his mouth and tell people. He even told his fucking mother. After all the small hints he dropped throughout the years, she finally caught on. But none of them had the tools to properly understand what was going on until years later — until the damage was already done. Until he was already damaged goods. Until he realised he was only good for his body — it was the only thing people would want from him. Now even his body is ugly. He hates it. Immediately when someone is friendly to him he wants to undress himself so they will know he’s useful and they should stay with him. Shame always finds its way back to him. He knows it’s not a good way to cope so instead he shuts himself from others. Always being private until his walls are broken down and he has to do everything within himself not to ruin the precious relationship.
He wants to make sure it will last. He doesn’t want to be used again. Please don’t let him be used again. He wants to be useful but not used. What a pathetic excuse of a human. A robot attempting to have human emotions and boundaries.
He’s fine.
He’s just being overly sensitive. It had been drilled into his mind at a young age — he’s way too sensitive about small things. Now most of his days are gray with barely any splashes of colours. He keeps it pretty hidden, or at least no one called him out on it. Even his best friend who’s supposedly so good at reading people hasn’t said shit. When did lying to the closest people to him become so easy? Had he also fooled himself? Is he just as bad as his groomer?
Yes, he finally wrote down the words and actually meant them. It wasn’t a flippant or a silly remark. He genuinely meant it. It hurts seeing the word because it meant he was weak. It meant he was easy to manipulate. He’s always been easy to manipulate. How awful for him? Doubt has always been a good friend of his. Doubt kept whispering to him that everyone was lying to him and playing him like a fiddle. Was he really that easy? Was that why he got trapped in the web of his groomer?
Oh how he hated that word. Why must a word make him so disgusted in himself? Why does a word make him want to scrub his skin raw? Until there’s blood all over him. He wants to bleed himself raw so he can start anew with nothing remaining from the past life. He wants to pour bleach on his brain to wash away the memories. It’s such a heavy word now. He always felt sympathy for the people who went through grooming, but now that's the realisation that’s what he went through too… It's such a heavy word. Such an ugly word. Why did he have to go through that? Why did he have to be such an easy victim?
He’s fine.
He has to be. He needs to be fine. If not, that means he’s broken. That means that his groomer won. That means it left such deep wounds that will never heal. It means that he was traumatised.
He’s fine.
But is he really when heightened emotions draw forth the cotton and make his concentration shit. He keeps zoning out. His coordination goes down and everything feels heavy. Thoughts slow down and get harder to hold down. Is he really fine?
He’s fine.
Why was his heart beating faster? Why does the emotions sit so heavy on his chest when he barely scratches the surface? It’s been so long yet they refuse to release their grip on his chest. They sit heavy behind his sternum. Sometimes he wants to crack open his chest to pull them out, especially after dragging it all back up again. Everything just feels worse now. He knew it would get worse, but was it really worth it? Was it really worth finally telling another living being the whole truth? Was this what he would be doomed with? Just getting the words out of his brain gets harder. His cheeks heat up for some reason but he’s not embarrassed. He just hates himself, he guesses.
He’s fine.
It all will be alright in the end. It has to, or else all of this would’ve been for nothing. He was supposed to let go of the shame, but the more he tries to let go the harder it holds on. The tighter the grip gets. The more painful it gets. The more scared he gets. Shame had become such a huge part of him.