I've decided that my life is like those cracks between the stalls in the bathroom: if you accidentally look in, you'll probably see something you don't want to see.
Thank you, for the harsh reminder that I am undeniably imperfect, that I cannot meet your expectations, and that others are exponentially better than I.
Thank you for the anger and pain that bubbles over from my chest to my head, filling every pocket of my being with resent for myself and those you praise after shutting me down.
Thank you for showing me what it feels like to be at my lowest point, so distressed that I can't paint, or draw, or read, or write because I am so distraught by the paralyzing realization that I and nothing I do will ever be enough.
I know you love me.
I know you're proud of me.
But I don't know why you choose to point out the things you don't love or aren't proud of.
If there was one single thing I could change about our relationship, I would take each of the prickling, withered exchanges of ours and replant them in a garden that is watered by love and fed by encouragement. I would tend to them and nurture them as they transformed from ugly, twisting encounters to tendrils of beauty and adoration.
I could rattle off all the things I admire about you with ease.
I hope one day you will be able to do the same for me.
I judge people too quickly,
The imprint they leave on my mind is frozen solid and is rarely revived to new life.
Be it good or bad,
One look and their soul is rock,
Weighing on mine.
I always see this folly of mine.
I promise I do.
But I am cursed
And I am anxiously waiting for the day it is either lifted or reflected back on me;
For the day when the wind will either rumple my hair as I smile admiringly at people I don't know,
Or wither me away in despair,
Forgotten and unloved.
Though she didn't have a perfectly straight nose
And she didn't have stick-thin limbs
And her teeth weren't all lined up.
Her beauty was still admired by all.
When did our definition of beauty mold with that of vanity and shallowness?
Perhaps her beauty was instead in the way she walked.
Or maybe it was in her smile.
Maybe it twinkled in her eyes.
But it definitely came from within.
She loved people
more than she loved herself
(even if she sometimes said otherwise)
And kept her pain inside
For fear that it would hurt another.
Her beauty came from the way she held a crying body against her,
Trying to keep their shattered pieces
It came from the way she looked at a person, as if she could love them forever.
And, as it turns out, his beauty was the same.
I myself am not
My beliefs about myself are.
Someday, those won't be distorted either...
Just maybe not today.
When I was one, I picked up a book and taught myself to read.
When I was in second grade, I taught my class a song in sign language and directed the performance in our school theater.
When I was in fifth grade, I learned my second instrument.
When I was in eighth grade, I won a mock trial case.
When I was in ninth grade, my depression was just starting to creep up.
When I was in tenth grade, my only friend at school was my history teacher in room 104.
When I was in twelfth grade, I went to therapy for the first time.
My life became like one of those paint swatches that show a gradient of colors. But this one was longer and ranged from colors like Unicorn Horn Pink to Color Me Crazy Crimson to a Cute Cornflower Blue and back again.
But one color it never reached was Gone For Good Black. I didn't let it. When the Color Me Crazy Crimson became too much I searched frantically for that Unicorn Horn Pink to lighten it up. Sometimes I found it quickly and the bad days weren't so bad anymore. Often times I didn't though. Each day came closer and closer to that one dreaded hue and the bad days became worse. I always found it somehow though; I wouldn't be here if I didn't. Now I keep that light, fluffy pink near me at all times. It does wander off sometimes, but Not for long. I'm not ready for Gone For Good Black yet.
And it's not ready for me.
What we had together wasn't beautiful. It wasn't supportive. It wasn't love. It was hell. And we didn't let each other forget it. Why did it last for so long, some ask? Because with the pain came real emotion. When it ended, I didn't cry because I missed him. I cried because I missed feeling. Yet I was so naive and "in love" that I didn't realize it then. I would have come crawling back to him if he had asked at the time. But only because I was tricked by the illusion that he could patch up my shattered heart. But you see, that figurative tape of his wasn't tape at all. It was a rope. And if I had let him, he would have tied that rope around my broken heart like a leash. And I was too naive to feel him tugging every which way, screaming at me to do things right for once. As I think of this now, I don't know what stopped me from going back. I have this hunch that it's because a tear from my crying heart slipped into my blood stream and travelled throughout my body, letting every inch of me know that I was in pain, and eventually ended up in my brain. Then there was that typical heart versus mind junk that went on (though I think that saying is ridiculous). My point is, something clicked and I suddenly realized how stupid I was to think he could fix me when it was him who broke me in the first place. Of course, ice cream and movies and friends got me through it, but what really fixed me was this realization.
To you: I won't hold anything against you; it will do neither of us any good. In fact, I hope you've had a wonderful life thus far.
To many, breathing is more trouble than it’s worth.
Don't come to me if you're going to joke about your stress with the phrase
God I'm totally just going to hang myself.
Don't come to me if you're going to joke about your mistakes with the words
I should just kill myself.
Clearly, you don't know the feeling of choking on too little air.
Clearly, you have no clue what tears taste like after they've been rolling past your parted lips and onto your parched tongue every night.
Clearly, you don't know the meaning of those words.
It's not funny.
It's not cute.
You'll get no sympathy from me.
Because let me be the first to tell you,
To many, those thoughts come with each breath.
And to many, the only way to stop those thoughts,
Is to stop the breath.
I think it's ironic how I'm more comfortable writing something that strangers read than I am conversing with someone I've known my whole life.
I can put pen to paper without a second thought, well aware of the pairs of strange eyes that will read into my deepest thoughts and fears.
But when I try to speak to familiar pairs of eyes, my heart pounds and my mind jumbles and I freeze.
I'm suddenly very aware of my shaking hands and my darting eyes and my stilted breathing.
I can picture that blemish on my chin that I couldn't cover with makeup and the fact that I haven't spoken in so long that my mouth feels stuck to itself and my tongue feels swollen.
Maybe it's just easier to open up to someone who has no idea who I am.
They can't judge me because they don't know me, right?
Or maybe I'm really just talking to myself.
But then again, I'm not even comfortable with myself.