Some days I want the nothingness… some days it comes so easily and other days I beg for it.  I told myself I would stay woke, I would stay open, I wouldn’t retreat, I wouldn’t hide, I would stay here, present.

But for someone who has spent their life running away and walling up without even know it, it’s harder to stay than it is to go. It just happens… I open myself, I get hurt, I don’t really know how to express myself and before I know it, I’m behind that wall.

The walls I thought I crushed.

Some of them are still there.  There were so many before it was like being in a maze.  I won’t play the drama queen or the victim and act like they are all still there.  I will give myself credit for how far I’ve come in such a short time, really.  It’s been not quite 2 years since I crawled out of the hole I was living in – when I found that wild within me that wanted desperately to get out.

I’ve done a lot of work, become a very different person.  But the demons and the gremlins show up sometimes to tell me I haven’t really.  I should just leave.  I’m a fraud, a fake and am I really wild?  Am I ALWAYS speaking my truth?  No…and I want to just be swallowed so I don’t have to do any of this…

I don’t always know my truth. Some days I forget who I am, I forget my wild, my intuition, my deep inner knowing and I listen to everything outside of me, other people, the chatter in my head, my limiting beliefs.  Some days it wins.

I worry about what people will think when I say this, what I’m saying right now.  Will they think I don’t have it together or I don’t know what I’m doing?  What is my truth?  Some days I just don’t know.  I feel like I know it, that I am living it but then something goes wrong or things don’t work out and it doesn’t make sense.

What did I do wrong?  Where did I go wrong?  Sometimes it’s just fucking hard.  No matter how much work you’ve done or how many days you get it all right, the one that overwhelms you seems to be the one that beats you up the most.  Why is it so easy to latch onto the mistakes, the things not working, instead of the ones that did work, the people who are listening, the people you are helping?

Some days the grip won’t loosen, all the practice in the world of positive thinking, focusing on the big picture and the gratitude does fuck all to appease me.  And I fight the sinking into it, the darkness even though I know I will learn there.


I know I censor myself.  Some people will find that shocking.  But I censor what I share.  Fear of being seen as not knowing what I’m doing?  Fear of being a fraud?  How can I help other people when I have bad days?  A little of the perfectionist creeping in?

I censor my writing.  I censor the things I share and what I post.  And my writing cannot be censored.  I want to censor this article right now but I won’t.  Because writing is the only place I have ever truly been able to be real.  It’s where I bleed.  I censor my wild because some days I’m confused.  Sometimes I don’t know what it is.  Some days I choose easy, some days I choose wild and some days I don’t choose anything and in not choosing I let someone else choose for me and that it still a choice.

Sometimes I don’t know how to voice my feelings or to speak up.  And I still stuff it down.  And it festers and bubbles.  And I know better.  But sometimes I still do it because those walls show up and I am behind them before I even know I am.

The walls were always a safe place for me.  Become what they want.  Don’t rock the boat.  Don’t talk about things I’m not supposed to talk about.  Don’t ask for anything.  Don’t speak up.  Do not speak back.  Do not say no.  Do not say you don’t like something.

I remember as a kid not wanting to sleep at my nan’s.  She would send for me when pop was away.  She hated sleeping alone.  My abuser was there, for one.  And she made me breakfast that I hated.  I never said no because I was not allowed to say no.  I wasn’t given a choice or a voice.  So I went, every time.  Grudgingly.  Knowing I was walking into a predators lair (my fear writing this paragraph is huge, I’m not even sure I will leave it or if I will edit it, like I do so many things because the overwhelming fear of having it out there in a way I cannot control who knows, what they know, etc, I guess we’ll see what happens).

One day I said no.  Hesitatingly. My mother asked me why.  I wouldn’t tell her about my uncle.  I did tell her about the toast with butter and sugar that I hated.  She said “just tell her you don’t want that“.  I was shocked.  I said I didn’t want to tell her I didn’t like it.

I had been trained my entire life to say yes.  To be good.  To say thank you.  And never speak up or speak back.  I suppose I was allowed to do in some ways but I didn’t know what ones.  So I didn’t do it in any way.

Even when I had the opportunity to speak up when it all came out, I refused to speak. I denied. And denial is still a place I love to live sometimes.  It doesn’t hurt there.  And it’s like well worn jeans, they slip on so easily.

No one will notice.

I want to fade away.  I want it all to fade into nothingness.  I didn’t want this role.  I didn’t ask for this life.  I didn’t ask for this story.  And I slip every so silently into the abyss.  And it feels good for a while.  But now that Ive been open I become acutely aware when I am closed.  I become acutely aware that I’m letting people decide for me.  I know that I don’t say “stop” or “fuck off” nearly enough.

I just “let it be and let it go” when I shouldn’t.  And I don’t let go what I should.  It gets confusing and muddled.  And it gets hard.  It feels heavy and I can’t deny that I’m closed.  I miss the days sometimes when I was closed and didn’t know it.

When I close now I can feel it .  And it hurts more knowing that I’ve known that I’ve withdrawn, that I’ve retreated.  I wish I could be one of those people who just shares everything.  But I’m not.  I struggle with sharing my shame stories.  I spent my whole life hiding them. 2 years ago this conversation would never have happened so I tell myself that it’s ok, I’m doing well, baby steps.

But really, I’m still just scared sometimes. Sometimes I’m still that scared girl who just wants it all to go away.  And everyone calls me for help.  And I don’t call anyone for help … 

And I’m even more scared saying that.  I want to have more courage, I want to be more open, I want to write the fucking book and I don’t at the same time.  I want to hide, run away and wither away and die and I want to open the windows and scream it all from the roof tops.  I want to stop hiding and I want to hide.  I want to find all the parts of me and I want to hide all the parts of me that get hurt so easily.  I can’t have it both ways. I know that.  I have to choose.  And not choosing is still a choice to stay stuck.

The constant battle of saying too much, being too much and shoving it all down.  It creates a noise I can’t feel in.  I try to settle it but I become aware that I can’t breathe.  Somehow I find the off switch…

And I flick it.  

I want to leave it off.  Days like today I want to leave the switch in the off position.  I want to get a normal job and I want to be a normal person.  I want to stop caring about people.  But I can’t stop.  It’s what I was born to do. I might not have wanted this story but here it is – mine.  While sometimes I want to blend in I know I wasn’t born for that.  I just wish this was all easier to do.

I’m tired of the nothingness and I want more of the nothingness.  I feel like I’m writing the dairies of a madwoman but it’s true.  I want the nothingness to engulf me but at the same time I want the nothingness to end.

I want to breathe, deeply, fully.  Why can’t I breathe?  I want to feel the air in my lungs… my chest expand.  I want to sob and kick and scream. I want to own all of myself.  But some days I forget who I am.  I bury the wild and I live a life of conformity.  And I hate myself for it.

Conformity is not who I am.  But it’s how I’ve acted most of my life.  Worried more about everyone else than myself. Worried about who I am offending or hurting and not worried about myself at all and what stuffing it down is doing to my soul.  The shell I crawl into is a prison of my choosing.

I listen to other people instead of myself.  I forget who I am.  And I believe other people’s version.  All the time becoming what’s easier, blending in on the outside but festering on the inside, normalizing my life.

Who am I really?  Some days I still don’t know.  And some days I do.  I know that I always know but some days it’s harder to convince myself that any of it matters….and I search for the nothingness but again, I’m not here to steady the boat, I’m here to rock it.

But sometimes I’m scared to do that…for today, this blog, this writing, this piece is a step in the right direction… feeling the feels, speaking the truth as it stands today.  Tomorrow is new day.  And I will try to breathe a little deeper and be a little less scared.


PS… are you a member of my tribe on Facebook?  Join us here – Wild Souled Women.


2 thoughts on “Nothingness

  1. Janice says:

    You are a human being Tonya and we all have our ups and downs. Our bad days and good days. You were a child and you did nothing wrong. I am truly inspired by you everyday xx


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