Talking Myself Down

I am trying to feel safe right now. It's not a thing that just... happens. I breathe in, I tell myself that I am an adult and I am okay. I keep breathing. I am smart, I am able to handle my emotions. I am allowed to feel angry. I am not bad for feeling bad. 

I am talking to you, Madi. You're just 13. It was not your fault. I know you want to sweep it under the rug. It seems safer. You will not anger God for speaking the truth to yourself. It was not your fault. It was not your fault. It was not your fault.

The shame persists. I separate myself but shadow always follows in a brightened room. Attached. Why was Peter Pan so scared of his shadow? It grows as you do.

He, an elder, preaches to me, disfellowshipped. He who pursued a girl barely hitting puberty. Sends messages through my entranced mother. I want to sit across from him. Thirty years old. Solid and sturdy and sure, a ring of self-righteousness circling me brightly. "Explain yourself."

I have spent half of my life carrying their shame. I am allowed to be angry. I am allowed to be angry. I am not evil. It was not your fault.