i’ve been at battle with personal demons.
sometimes i feel like the feelings in my heart, and the voices in my head are at constant battle with me. like they are the popular girls at some big, private school in the suburbs, and they hate my loafers and over-grown bangs. they bully me because i’m too short, and my eyes are sad, and my hair is too dark. and i’ve forgotten how to cry.
sometimes i feel so hurt… and all i can do is sit on the edge of my bed waiting for these emotions to take over me- i’m waiting for tears to well up in my eyes, or for my lip to start quivering, but all i even know how to do anymore is sit- back hunched over, pouting like a child, and angry (so fucking angry) that i have to wait for something other than this dull ache in the middle of my chest to make me feel real again.
this feeling is not in my gut, like when you’re sad and you want to throw up and crawl under your blankets. and not in my throat, like when you’re on the verge of tears, and you have your mother’s phone number on speed dial because you know you can always call the woman who gave you birth and know she’ll sit on the other end and listen to your breathing, and let the sound of your tears falling onto the receiver take over, because sometimes you just need to fucking call your mom and cry, and cry, and cry. and she lets you. she lets you like no one else lets you. and that’s important.
but sometimes there’s this ache in the middle of your chest. and it hurts when you breathe, and it hurts when you realize you’re still breathing, and it hurts even when it’s not hurting. and how do you call your mother and tell her that your life is falling into place, finally… but the only thing you can do is lay on your back, over your covers (your favourite covers) and stare at the dumb popcorn ceiling you hate, and you narrow your eyes on that little speckle of olive green paint you carelessly (accidentally) got on your stupid ceiling when you were painting one sunday afternoon- drunk off four cans of PBR, and shaking your butt in your yoga pants to some of your favourite new order song.
fuck, that seems like forever ago.
how do you tell your mother everything on the outside is beautiful, but everything inside of you feels like a thick black sludge, and you’re drowning in the quicksand of your own sorrow?
i hadn’t felt loved (really loved) in so long. but when he’d spin my favourite records (just for me), or spend hours making up incredible recipes (just for me), or i’d come home to the smell of bleach and lemons, because he’d spent his only day off on his hands and knees, scrubbing the tub and cleaning the kitchen floors (just for me- and also, totally for himself)… those little things made me feel so important. like he had a zillion choices he could make in a day, and every single one he made, he made to see me smile. because he knew, in the bottom of his heart, that the woman he loved was the saddest girl on the planet.
and he was right, you know.
i am horribly selfish, and painfully lost, and i can’t shake this sadness from my insides.
sometimes i place my palm on my chest just to feel the boom-boom of my own heartbeat to remind myself that i really am here, and this really is my reality, and i better buck up and make the best of it, because i really don’t have many other options at this point.
i feel so guilty. i am so blessed, and so lucky, and i worry that my mother will start to read between the lines, and she’ll see a sadness and a darkness, and she’ll feel the pain i’m living every day, and she’ll blame herself. and i’d die. i would die if my mother ever felt like she’d failed me because of the chemical inbalance in my brain. like her hugs weren’t strong enough, or like the love inside of her wasn’t enough to keep me happy.
that would kill me.
because she has the best hugs of anyone i’ve ever met. her neck always smells the same, and her cheeks are rosy and soft- like peaches in the summer. and her hands… i’ve never loved anyone’s hands the way i love my mother’s hands- strong, and weathered, and perfectly manicured, and so fucking feminine. lined with expensive rings with big stones, and always fresh smelling- like coriander and olive oil. and she’s the most soft-spoken woman i’ve ever known.
sometimes i picture her with hair white like snow, and wrinkles beside her eyes, and i fall more in love with her than i ever thought i could. like she’s this perfect creature with a heart the size of texas, and the colour of a fire truck, and it’s almost as if she’s aging backwards. like her hair is getting blonder, and her smile is getting more genuine with every birthday candle i add onto the cakes i bake her from scratch. and all i can think about is how i hope i can be that beautiful someday- carelessly, and without even trying. innocent, and light.
i’m a dweller.
i dwell on things.
i resent people. i hold grudges. i relive painful memories. fool me once, shame on me… fool me twice, i’ll fucking kill you.
maybe it’s a pride thing. maybe i enjoy the feeling of having the upper hand. maybe i like to fucking win, and i’m so sick of hurting, that i’ll do anything in my power to avoid conflict, or painful situations, or loss. i have too much love inside of me, and i get angry when it has nowhere to go. i build walls, and retract, and every new fucking day, is another 24 hours of self preservation.
people tried to help me for years, and i whole-heartedly refused every single gracious offer because i had too much damn pride to seek help for the sadness in my heart. i never got the help i needed when i was desperate, or scared, or alone. i never told anyone when my life was at risk, or the darkness got too heavy, and i certainly never told anyone about what happened. about everything that happened. i burried all of those nightmares and memories into this tiny little ventricle in the red of my heart, and i tried (for years, now) to forget. but sometimes i lay alone in my bedroom at night, and that little drawer is so close to bursting at the seams and i suffocate. i’m paralyzed by these memories (that don’t always feel like my own). and while a big part of me wants to cradle my frail little limbs, and whisper in my own ear and assure myself that i’ll be okay, the other part of me wants to shake me by the shoulders, slap me across the hardest part of my cheek, and tell myself to fucking get over it. to fucking stand tall, and be alert, and always be strong.
be the kind of woman other women envy, for fuck’s sake.
eat well, and play hard, and kiss with your eyes closed, and play. wear lipstick, and go dancing, and buy shoes you can’t really walk in, and excel at your job. laugh, always. smile constantly. be friendly, and make strangers fall in love with you. be charming, stay humble, be gentle. give without the expectation of getting anything in return. show some cleavage. read books, be interesting, cook for your man. take bubble baths, and paint your toe nails to match your finger nails, and shave your legs. listen to music that makes you shake your ass, and shake that ass. be proud of your body. be proud of its imperfections, and its dimples, and tell yourself you’re beautiful. because you are.
you are so fucking beautiful.
genetics made it so my hips are big, my eyes are brown, and my brain is scrambled.
but that other stuff? the things i can control, and the things i can alter and change and do to make this darkness less heavy? those are things i need to do for myself. those are the things i need to focus on to make me feel good, as a person, and as a woman, and as a timid, sad little girl stuck inside this explosive firecracker of a human being.
so set out to do the same… because i sure as hell can’t do this alone.