I have to prepare myself.

It isn’t as easy as 1-2-3.

It isn’t as easy as flicking a switch on or off.

It takes time.

It takes patience, which I have very little of.

And it feels like each and every time a part of me is ripped open. After taking so many years to heal.

Fleshy. Raw. Each and every time my mind wanders over and over the material.

Only it’s not material.

These aren’t stories.

These are facts.

Bits and pieces of my life. Worded together to form a post.

Only each and every time I arrange a sentence the letters that compile words peel another layer of skin and I am exposed.

The most painful scars get re-opened every other weekend.

They are now 14 and almost 12.

They live with their father.

Because I was too fucked up to care for them and wanted an abusive man to love me more than I wanted to be a mother. Even though that was years ago. It haunts me.

I am a disgrace.

And each and EVERY time I try to put more of my story out there those two facts. 14 and almost 12, race to the surface begging to be released.

To test me.

To test my faith.

To see if I am worthy to be forgiven.

Sometimes I wish he had killed me. That I never regained consciousness. Then I wouldn’t have to live with the fact that I made such horrific choices.

If I wasn’t so damn blind. I would have 14 and almost 12, here, now, with me everyday.

Instead I share them with their father and another woman, they now call Mom.

Just forcing my hands to type the letters forming the word Mom, tears another layer and blood pools at the surface.

Pick. Pick. Pick. Word after ugly word.

Blood drips.

Spilling out of every pore.

Will it ever feel less painful?!