There used to be wonder in your eyes, the reflection of me. Now there is just disdain. You’ve changed, or worse…I have.
My heart beats so hard it physically hurts. I can feel the hovering sensation, the dark clouds intensifying their reach. The drowning screams inside my head, silent to all others, deafens my ability to breathe. No new thoughts, no knew thoughts, no ability to rationalize. Merely the repeating loop of NO, of THIS IS NOT RIGHT, of the overwhelming need to go home, need to feel at home.
I have never felt HOME. Where is it. Why am I so lost. Where are you.
I see your body, towering and strong. Despite my weight and size, I feel so vulnerable. I see the way your eyes roll, unable to deal with my dramatics. Fear is not just overpowering. It is isolating, to the point where you become isolated from the person you know yourself to be. And in the wake of her leaving, you- the you you have worked so hard to become, is a shell. Weak and brittle. I can see the way you see me, and it only serves to make me hate myself more.
You tell me to do this. To make myself something it is not, calm and docile. How can I relax it the presence of such danger.
There is danger, and even if it is minute to you or imagined in my head it is real.
Even if there was no danger- you are danger. The destroyer of self esteem and hope. Your eye rolls and subtle comments are not sly or subtle. I watch and I see. I protect and I guard. I alarm and I caution. You are the destroyer of will. Of fight, and of flight. You create the cold freeze my body shivers for.
I anxiety. You hate it, your create it, you are it. Are we the same?
You say “Relax”. As if you know me enough when you do not know me at all.
Relax. But How?
You say relax as if it were the guardian of the soul and the bringer of peace. Such peace cannot soothe such battle. The shield is broken and the sword is pliant.
You do not like my thoughts and do not want my words. Their silence is thunderous. My skin feels like lightening. Well..
Fuck you. I want to cry. Not because you hurt me, although that often brings me to tears. No, I want to cry because sometimes the world makes you cry. Elections make me cry. Gilmore Girls make me cry. Sometimes being so mad because there are so many things to do, so many people to help, so many causes to fight, so many people hurting. And I’m tired. And then there are all the Chiari things that make me want to cry, ugly sob, hyperventilate, chest pain kind of cry. Like realizing that I have literally never woken up with energy. I do not know what it feels like to feel physically good. Realizing I am 27 and I may have a life time of this misery, of being a burden, and never knowing what in the next five minutes is going to take away all the courage I was storing, the little drops of hope I was collecting, all to muster up the will to not just live my life, but live it. But I can’t. Because crying makes it worse. Crying turns the headache into a neck ache that is so bad I need to throw up. But I cannot let myself do that, because that makes it hurt too. I cannot cry because all of the tiny people who live in my head and like to try and pry the two halves apart always, go into over drive. I can’t cry because the prying turns into pain so bad that I try and do it for them. I cannot cry because I do not deserve it. There are people with pain worse than mine. I cannot cry because I want to and I do not know how to get what I want. If I do, if I get to pick of all things I want what I actually get… well then, I want relief. I want to breathe without the anxiety and the terror. I want to feel at home, at home. I want more than this life.
So Dear Chiari.
Fuck you. Because I want to cry, but I can’t. Because if I start I don’t know how I will stop. Fuck you Chiari.
It piles and roles and twist and turns. How can something so internal be so palpable? The energy almost visible, your anger crashing like waves against all my defenses. The anxiety in the pit of my stomach, my racing heart, the beads of sweat destroying the careful face I have painted all shouting, are my walls high enough? Thick enough? Practiced enough?
I used to wear the ash of your eruption like armor. But now it weighs heavy on my skin, corrodes my soul like acid.
via Daily Prompt: Volunteer
I cry. Scream.
I am twenty-seven and I still want to call for my mom.
I never remember how bad it can get and every time I swear this is the worst it has been. When a part of your brain casually sits in your neck a cough is the boogeyman. The haunting fear, the arresting irrational depraved anxiety that sits in the corner of you head and whispers sad little thoughts.
I am in the kitchen. How am I here? Oh god, do I go to the hospital? Can you hear me screaming, mom? Is it out loud? I feel my throat being ripped; I can taste the blood and rawness, the edge of my sanity as rough as my throat. Is this the end? The 10 on the pain scale I have always been too frightened to give? The bile, I can taste the codeine infused bullshit cough medicine weakened through the mediocrity of Medicaid mixed with the soup. Not to feel better but because my weak arms and wobbly feet could only do so much, I can only stand for so long with out crying and crying is only to be outdone my the cough only to be outdone by the gagging of the cough only to be outdone by the hyperventilating sob infused screams of fears, that this is my future.
I did not volunteer for this, I was drafted.
Born and undiagnosed with malformed brain only to be diagnosed and unbelieved. Like I wanted this.
Like I hoped for this. I
… see it in your eyes when I need an extension, when I call and say I cant. Not tonight. Not now. I see the darkness in your heart when it beats here we go again. Look at me.
Look at me and maybe you will see the darkness I sit in, surround myself in, cry in, beg god in, and here we go again in.
I did not volunteer for this.
I was drafted.
I am not where I want to be. I sit here surrounded by an unfamiliar life, in and unfamiliar room with unfamiliar walls. Worst of all, I sit here consumed by unfamiliar feelings. I was raised to question things and taught to question everything and for the most part that has served me well but there is nothing more isolating then feeling like a stranger amongst your own thoughts and emotions. If nothing else rings familiar, let me at least here these words.
i need to get my shit together
New beginnings. I used to think someone would save me from my life, perhaps that is why I love Harry Potter so much. I have always felt the child, making a birthday wish for a different reality, buried deep in my soul.
My mom has always told me I can always have a fresh start. I think it started when my guilt did. When childish behavior by a child felt like the end of the world.
in my child mind.
As a child with adult problems and adult panic I needed to know it would be okay. Somehow and somewhere there is something different waiting for me. And so began fresh starts.
Well, I am a full grown adult still waiting for my life to start because I have restarted it so many times. Each beginning, every new year, every Sunday, every first of the month, every early morning I promise myself-
this time itll be different.
ill be different. ill be better.
someone will save me.
then I mess up, and I say
Well, maybe this time it will be my last new beginning. maybe now I can save myself. Or maybe not.
My favorite phrase lately has been “you do you” and as ridiculous as it may sound, this phrase has helped me navigate a bunch of tough situations. I realize in hindsight that it echoes a foundation I never realized I had… that people have the ability to be good AND different. That overlapping lives can coexist without encroaching on each other.
Sexuality has always been confusing for me. I am not pretty and as a result I was a late bloomer. In my curiosity I did a lot of reflecting. I realized I was unbiased, why should it matter who I am with physically if they treat me right, if I connect, if all the fundamentals were there? People who never caught my eye originally could easily become attractive as I got to know them. Catching a glimpse of their humanity, their uniqueness, would light me on fire. Is that not more important than the body they are in? In examining these thoughts and feelings I realized that I do not fit in typical sexuality boxes. If anything, I would most identify as pansexual.
My being pansexual does not encroach on others. It in not way affects others in any way that is different than a heterosexual life would. Why do I have to come out? Why do I have to sit you down and explain to you what I do with others?
But then I did and I took it back and hated myself for doing it and hated myself for taking it back. I never cared as much until the words left my mouth and although you let me pretend I could suck them back in, inhale them like the breath I was struggling to find I hate it all the same. Why?