Who ever knew laughing isn’t always a good thing? Well, I’m starting to notice that laughing isn’t the fix for everything. I can’t get through retelling of traumatic stories like being attempted kidnapped without laughing through the recounting. Maybe it is a sort of medicine, or maybe I laugh first so that I beat others to the punchline. Either way it hasn’t helped me see my story in the way that others probably do.

I hate feeling weak so I keep myself busy. If I accomplish a lot at a young age then maybe I’ll feel as strong as everyone tells me that I am. That hasn’t worked yet. I still feel just as empty as I ever have. I wish that someone could reach my hurt and connect with it so that I don’t feel so alone. I mean, this is how I’ve felt for so long, but I think what I really mean is that I wish I could touch my hurt so that I don’t feel so alone. I feel alone with myself because I laugh when I should cry.

My mom used to hit me until she couldn’t take the pain in her hand anymore. I would stare her down, face red with anger, tears welling up and I’d yell “I won’t cry!” I don’t know why I am still doing that to myself, why I keep holding back my tears when I feel them rising up. I think I laugh so that I don’t feel how helpless I felt in those kinds of moments. Those times when others around me took their turn picking me apart piece by piece, having their fill until I was just bones. I hope that I can learn to water my bones with my tears and grow a new garden of flesh that feels like home.