I wasn’t always like this. I’m not always like this.
There are moments when I laugh uncontrollably, moments of complete silence and there are moments when I cry out to Spirit because of the pain I feel inside, somewhat like a throbbing earache that persists. I swing from one extreme to the other in fleets of moments at times but I guess that’s all apart of my vulnerability. I’ve tried putting labels to it but that’s always freaked me out and then sends me to hypochondriac central and Lord knows that place can be a whirlwind. However in spite of all the confusion, I refuse to alter my biological system by putting foreign drugs into my body, numbing my feelings and numbing my mind. I’d rather feel all the emotions even if they are a thousand emotions in an hour, it shows me how human I am and why should I numb that?
There are a lot of people I carry in my heart, even if I don’t see them, even if we haven’t spoken, my love still holds on to theirs. If I am completely honest, I play scenarios over and over in my head, silently justifying why I hide away, or why I had to walk away, hoping that they would hear the message I sent them via air-waves. It wasn’t because I began to dislike them, on the contrary it was because I felt them too much, I gave away too much of myself while still carrying unresolved baggage. This place where I now reside is somewhat of a protection, a shell to keep me from breaking again, whilst slowly but surely emerging from the darkness and entering the light. Walking away has always been easier than sticking around to get hurt. When I was little girl it was the ones I loved fiercely that walked away, that hurt me or simply had their card pulled from this chess game of life.
The first time I loved, I was in complete openness. She was 99 years old, my very distant cousin and Maria was her name. I had just arrived, freshly picked from the garden of eternity and when our spirits locked essence, she immediately took me in, the first person away from my mother to hold me. I was told that by the spit of her mouth, she drew a cross on my forehead. That for me was a symbolism of a bonding of spirit and heart. She taught me closeness, she taught me gentleness and she taught me about care. The day that God whispered in her ear to come home, I’m not quite sure what I was doing but it was just another day of adventure to 5 year old me. Night time had beckoned and people were dotted around the yard doing what they do but then there was this air of emergency roaming. I remember Sylvia, Maria’s carer making a phone call to a relative trying to explain that Maria had died, the cause being a second stroke. Now to any adult that would have been expected but to me it was not something I was willing to believe and accept and of course I protested! I ran into the room, ready and desperate to prove that my Maria was still there and still breathing. I shook her body, I shook and I shook until tears eventually found their way to my eyes, watching her, pleading for her to wake up but to no avail.
I ran back into the yard and threw myself on the ground, begging God to take me and not her, asking for another chance. Why was it that she had to leave when I wasn’t there? How could this be?! No matter how much I try to remember her face these days, I can’t… but the memories of sitting at the piano in complete synchronicity, me, her and the music. Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol…
The second time I loved, I was still a child. 8 years old to be precise, in a new country, a new world and not really wanting to adjust but with no choice I had to suck it up. He was my first experience of a father and a model of the type of men I would then choose later on in life. I think this is where the confusion began. He would love me in his own way, a man I saw as the best friend in the world, we would go everywhere together but he would also be the one to beat me for no reason, to manipulate my mind and my heart, to turn me against myself and my mother. I am still learning to forgive myself and to forgive him, so I guess this is a way of making sense of it all, a part of that process. I was his princess, I was his pet, I was also his rag-doll and his “whenever he felt like it”. Fury still rises in me, even if the visions are skewered, the feelings still reside in my body and stirring and stirring the fire inside, I could be a dragon. A house on fire, a flame ready to devour and a hand ready to kill.. these were all the things I had morphed into. I realized from my last relationship that I didn’t choose love. In fact I chose a mirror of all the things, all the hurt that I had pent up, and hidden away even from my own self. I chose a codependent and a rather disturbing reflection of everything I tried to escape, the reflection of the first father.
Since that particular experience, life took me on a series of journeys to the underworld and to the heavens and back to earth again. My brain has weird images and reasoning of how one should treat another, it has built up it’s own self defenses and regeneration processes which have included con-caving into myself and stirring a pot of how, why, when, where and what the fucks lol. I’ve learnt that Zoloft, Mirtazapine and Codeine are not my friends, neither is codependency and a lack of self love because a combination of those can be the death of you. Any form of abuse that tries to disguise itself as love requires you to Stand Up, Speak Up and get the fuck out the door! Life is too beautiful, YOU are too beautiful to let someones brokenness break you.
When you say NO, Let it be with Strength. Let it be TRUE and let it be the STRONGEST thing you ever DO.