Sadness envelopes me like a shroud. Spindly, grisly fingers of despair clutch my throat, the heaviness of grief slowly crushing my chest as rise and fall of respirations slows to a lethal pace. Remaining bubbles of life-giving oxygen escape my body. Numb with death, a single tear slips down my cheek, the only evidence life ever existed within.
And I am finished.
All of the years, months, days, hours of digging deep into the wounds are over. Weary arms cannot dig further. The excavating shovel clanks agains the bedrock bottom of my soul. Only Fool’s Gold is to be found. Sparkly, shiny ore that when tested crumbles under the pressure. No precious metal within, no extravagant gemstones without. Only a mistreated body and tortured soul remain. Void of life, of joy, of hope. Void of the promise of tomorrow.
Smiles and pigtails exist in my mind’s eye. A precocious girl of six smiles back at me. So happy, free and pure. No cares. No concerns. Eager for love, attention, affection. Trusting, needing, wanting. Praise, attention, affirmation.
Giggling fills the air as she runs and dances around me. My lifeless eyes gaze at her, showing no hint of recognition. I’d like to be her, I hear my soul whispering. Of course, right now I would rather be anyone other than myself.
Surely there are other fates more easily managed. Torture, homicide, starvation. Poisoning, drowning, freak archery accident.
Anything seems more doable, bearable, tolerable than slowly evaporating, fading into nothingness, ceasing to be, to exist. To matter. Being cast away, forgotten, ignored.
Anything would be better.
Screaming silently takes more energy than a horrifically guttural scream.
Silence is punishment.
I no longer crave punishment.
Make it stop.
Wake me up. Breathe into me. Fill my lungs with expectation, hope and peace.
Give back to me all that has been taken. All that has been forgotten. All that has been forsaken.
Great gasps gulp air into my mouth, throat, trachea, lungs.
Attempts to inhale healing are still stifled by the fingers of uncertainty clutched about my throat.
The only certainty I have is the knowing that somehow, some part of me always showed up. I am the only person that ever took a stand for me. Even when I didn’t know I was doing it, I was. A better, stronger part of me stepped forward, took over and shielded me through horror after horror.
I have been my own lifeline, my eternally connected life jacket, my all knowing refuge. I have known myself since the beginning, protected myself at every turn yet still have forsaken myself when I needed myself the most.
I am worth fighting for. No explanation is truly needed. No justification for loving the being that is me and putting her first. –
This my head knows…but my mind tends to ignore. Is it my mind? My psyche? My soul?
Who is truly ignoring my needs, forsaking them for the needs of others? Others who do not hold me in high esteem, but rather abuse me with words and actions?
Am I not deemed worthy by myself or by them? Do I revert back to this pattern for the comfort of the pain? The mother-fucking-chronic-bone-marrowous-won’t-stop-no-matter-what-I-try-to-do for-it pain? I am drawn to it like a moth to a flame, getting so close that my wings maintain just the right amount of unsightly singe. Not enough to kill me, but more than enough to hold me back. Just enough to keep myself from flying at my full capacity. So I can keep myself small, quiet, acceptable, palatable?
But For whom?
Am I scared of me? Until a few days ago I scoffed at that question. What a ridiculous thought. Oh? What am I ? some Big Bad Wolf? A sulfurous, demonic fire breathing dragon lady? What? Me?
Yet- Now…as I dig deeper into myself. Into my potential vs my self-depreciating actions, my capacity for love and loyalty vs. my penchant for all forms of relationships with people that treat me like shit, my craving for adventure, for a limitless life, for a super-glamourous, earth shaking book deal vs days and weeks of no planning, no writing, no real living. Moping, sobbing, barely existing.
Apparently, I am somewhat scared of me. What if I do succeed? What if life does work out? Who am I if I’m not the victim? Who am I with healthy wings, flying, reaching, soaring? Who am I not playing it safe? Not sucking it up? Not dumbing it down?
Honestly, I’m not exactly sure who that makes me. How to be her, accept her, and just let her be.
How do I stop analyzing the shit out of everything and just breathe?
There is no answer except to just begin.
Slowly and purposefully remove the spindly fingers of despair from around my throat. Inhale life. Exhale pain.
Eat glitter for breakfast and rejoice as my true self begins to shine.