you were doing what you were
supposed to be doing.
It was not a failure.
It was a lesson.
you’ll get there.
here.” – Viviany
“You crucified yourself to my anger, my crossness
You exposed your torment to my being saved.
I suppose though
That’s the true meaning
Of a Christ-like love
Your pearly gates are wide and open!
Now please, Mother of God
Won’t you shut up?” – Dorothy England
“Little flower, I wish I could show you.
I wish I could see!
Just keep drinking and pushing. Drinking and pushing. Open yourself right where you are. Don’t wait till you see sunlight. Keep at it. Grow in your strength.
It’s just so dark in here.
It won’t be for long. For you are a wildflower about to push through a crevice of rock on a high place, traveled by few. But those who go there take in all I give them with holy awe.” – Leanna Glenn Markham
Who You Are And Who You Want To Be
Fiction. Based on a true unbelonging.
By Bry LeBerthon
This journal entry is inspired by true events. Some of the characters, names, businesses, incidents, and certain locations and events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Any similarity to the name, character or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional.
Trigger Warning: our program often motivates people to discuss their trauma. If you find yourself feeling overwhelmed, please, take a step back to address emotional flashbacks and trauma before continuing to push yourself. If you are experiencing a medical emergency, call 911 or the National Suicide Hotline at (1-800) 273-8255.
You are the kind of girl that will never ever ever read her old journal entries.
You’ve always wanted to be, but you cant. You’re not quite sure why.
Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you don’t find yourself poetic, if that makes any sense at all. (You’re sure it doesn’t.)
Diary entries are of the day to day, the minute to minute, your mood ever-changing and your progress staying still.
You always write down what you’re feeling in that moment, never what you’re feeling in your life, and you go back and read it like “who the fuck cares that i spilled my glass of milk that day?”
but you cant be bothered to think about yourself in the bigger way, the broader sense of things,
its too much pressure to be consistent and your mother raised you saying nothing’s ever set in stone,
her way of avoiding promises,
your way of excusing mistakes,
you have trouble even finding a place to put a period.
your sentences are long and gangly
and pick up nowhere
and flatly drop off.
but you think it has more to do with the fact that
theres so much pain between those pages
wedged between the paragraphs and lines
drowning out the margins of the paper
even if you never write down why.
you’re not the kind of girl that’s ever bleeding
but you are the kind of bitch always in pain
and you wonder when you got the wounds
as you are never injured
made up of aches and pains and sores that arent so bad but look really nasty
broken bones that never break the skin
the days are always worse than you remember
the nights are always easier with sin.
you wonder: why, really, am i in therapy?
what went wrong along the way that i am popping pills?
what if im actually fine and im just lying?
what part of me decided i am ill?
and there you go again being corny with your half-baked rhymes
if you’re a poet then for the love of god commit
and if you’re a writer then finish your fucking sentences
and if you’re somewhere in between then you don’t fit
you have a song stuck in your head again
like always, its a sad sounding girl, singing about getting hurt
why do you make all your writing about trauma
for once can you just take a breath and stop.