Dead Ends

The truth is, sometimes I start in one place with a strong idea, but then a tidal wave of emotions takes over and I lose all logical patterns and just write. In college, this would be critiqued. Write your work in a logical manner, make sure it ties together. But tell me, what is logical about this life I'm living? What is logical about everything I have experienced...not just within these last few years, but my whole life. If you find the logic within my last 25 years, if you find the purpose, the why - then I will write it. Until then, this is what you get. My thoughts. My ramblings. My search for order in the hoarder life my brain and emotions are living. This is me, trying to find an exit to the maze I live, only to find dead ends.

It’s funny. In preparation for graduation I bought a gown. Black, synthetic material, a little too long because I’m oddly proportioned like that, and yet the only gown a remember is the one I lent you.

Do you remember that? Showing up to my apartment door in only a slip, with confused shirt slightly covering you, and yet somehow you were bare? Perhaps that’s when I should have questioned. But that day was meant to be mine. Instead of reflecting, I laughed and praised fate that I procrastinated packing…I didn’t even question that you could no longer dress yourself.

And now I see pictures. Girls with their mothers, smiling with their tassels high. They will hold onto those memories for so long, but mine. Mine is a memory of pulling my family together one more time. Making sure everything ran smoothly. Keeping the world from falling apart so I could have one day.

One day. That’s too much to ask for now isn’t it. I can’t have one day where our life is normal. I can’t have one day when you remember my stories, you don’t interrupt my explanation only to ask the question again. One day where I can focus on who I am and show her to you, because I am too busy trying to help you find the pieces of who you were, and understanding them in the mess we are.

We are.  We are not one person. And yet it is our life. Our life that fell apart that day in March. Our life that continues to spiral. Too long has my life not been my own. I was 16 when I learned to be my own parent. Twelve when I learned to care for myself. Seven when I took care of myself after nightmares and sickness. There I am taking care of me. That’s when you and I became we. You needed me to take care of you. You needed him, he wouldn’t give, so there I was to provide you both with comfort.

Comfort that she would be alright on her own. Comfort that she was strong enough, mature, a force all on her own. At six, I was deciding my life for myself. At nine, I found comfort in a friend. At eighteen, I was older than many people are at forty. And at twenty-five I find myself exhausted. Every memory is reflected in a mirror smudged and broken. I see the cracks as they were, not the perfect collage of glass I always believed them to be. But ragged edges, meant to cut and hurt me. There is comfort in the reflection, but there is truth in the image that I never wanted to touch. There is pain I never wanted to be real.

Reality is, I can’t clean the mess until I acknowledge the existence. I can’t change, can’t build, until I realize it was broken. I try. I try to remember and pretend it was perfect. But the mirror isn’t what’s cracked. It’s me. It’s my life that is broken. And it’s not my job to fill in the blanks. But to pull my pieces together. Separate, I can still see you. Separate I can question and not fall apart. Separate I can give myself one day.

Rose's Turn pt. 2

I’m the audience to your life.

Commentary, useless background noise.

I get it now.

So that’s what I’ll be.

An aw here, and oh no! when things go wrong.

But I won’t provide a face.

I won’t offer words of advice or attempt to burden you with me.

When you ask, you’ll get an off-stage “great” and I’ll go back to cuing the lights.

Making sure you are center stage, that’s my job with you.

Making sure that everyone stays around you.

I’ll be background for your life.

But you’re sure as hell not going to star in mine.

Good luck pushing through the chorus.

Break a leg trying to enter my spot.

This world, the one I’m living in, doesn’t have room for you and your ego of two.

Your world, I will support.

In mine, I’m the lead.

And you can bet, I’m not backing down from this one woman show.

You can bet that I’m taking the bows that I owe.

You can bet that this time it’s all coming up me.

So, yea, I’ll give you your laugh track.

 But that’s all your getting…

yours is a role that aint’ coming back.

Repeating

Did it ever occur,

You could care about me?

Don’t just ask how I am or what is up?

But, listen instead of waiting to interject with your own pain.

Did it ever occur that I am here?

I have been here so long.

Listening, watching, hurting for you.

When you never felt for me.

You say I hurt you.

You say I am too out of control.

But the times I try,

You are never there.

You can’t lend a hand, because you have none to offer.

No wonder I lash out,

Desperate for your approval – attention because you use mine.

You mine me for support until I’m unable to care for even me.

No wonder I want to hurt you.

You are him.

You are him younger and disguised, but there he is.

You fill the silence with my voice.

Lean on me when the world is too much.

I am a jumping off point for your validation.

You are exactly him.

What am I supposed to learn from this lesson?

What am I supposed to change?

Do I address this?

And lose family in the meantime?

Or do I follow pattern?

And follow you?

Trying to keep my life from breaking in one more spot?

Or do I follow the crack and find the source?

No matter the cost.

What do I do,

When he is you?

"You've Lost Weight, You Must Be So Happy Now!"

 When I was fat, I had no idea.

 People don’t walk up to you and say, “oh, you’ve gained weight.” No one comments on your physical build or your shape change. They keep their thoughts to themselves, because when you’re fat, it is rude for them to notice. It isn’t their place to comment, no matter what they think. When I was fat, I didn’t notice. I didn’t care. I knew my clothes were fitting differently and that stairs took longer to climb, but was I angry? Was I ashamed? Did I look in the mirror every day and wish I was different? No, because I didn’t know I should.

I knew I looked different than other girls. I knew my body was not the ideal type. I didn’t know there was anything wrong with how I looked. I still dated, I still danced; I was still me and that was all that mattered. I wasn’t aware that I should judge the way I looked and hate it. The self-love I felt was genuine. I didn’t know I shouldn’t love myself until someone told me I needed to change.

As a child, I had moments of insecurity. I had moments where I thought “I’m too big” or “I don’t look like the pretty girls.” Then my family would step in, remind me I was unique, special, looks were never a focus. I was told I was smart. You are clever, funny, wise. I was never only told I was beautiful or pretty, there was always an and. “Pretty and talented,” “brave, kind, and have great eyebrows.” If you never hear that you’re not enough, you will always be complete. I was 211 pounds, and I was happy. I was secure. Then I was told I was too much.

Suddenly I had to change. The world would not accept that I was clever, a fast learner, and a great conversationalist. Now, I needed to fit a standard. I needed to look better, “feel better,” and to do this I had to change. So, I did.

Eight pounds, twenty, thirty -five, gone. The weight fell away and so did the security. When you’re fit or thin, suddenly your body is not your own. The world decides you are now “worthy” of their thoughts and opinions. “You look so good,” “you’re so hot now,” “hey girl, can I get some of that?” I lost my confidence, I lost the and. No one comments on your wit, your brains, your empathy once you’re pretty. It is only about how you look. Suddenly, if you don’t look perfect or right you are less than and there isn’t any other place your value can come from – there is only your looks. Although I once knew this isn’t true, I believed it. I followed the compliments, got addicted to the eyes and words, and began to believe that there was nothing else that gave me value.

Now I crave it. I send selfies so I can shoot up on the likes. I post “self-love posts” when my confidence is the lowest. I say that losing weight has helped my mental health, but I struggle eating a bagel in the morning because of the calories. I hate myself if I don’t go to the gym. I beat myself up for each mini kit kat I eat. Do I love the gym and feeling strong? Yes. Are there now so many extra, useless concerns rolling through my head? Yes.

How long will I have to work out to balance out this meal? If I eat this, can I eat dinner later? Are my arm muscles too big? Will I still be pretty if I am strong? Am I worthy of their attention yet? Am I finally enough?

Enough. I have always been enough. I used to believe that whole heartedly. Now, there’s a line that I will never reach, but will keep running toward. People always think someone who goes through a big transformation feels better after. When I was fat, I didn’t know I had to be someone else to be perfect. I was perfect. Now, I am the world’s property and they tell me what I need to be, and I am not my own.

And the best part is, the world says I should be happy. I should be proud of where and who I am; why? Because I’m starting to match their idea of perfect? Because I can wear clothes in a single digit size? Tell me society, what is happy about counting calories? About guilting myself every time I do something that brings me joy, even if it doesn’t bring me closer to fitness goals? Where is the happiness in fear that I will gain the weight back and become nothing?

 You created this fear. You fed it and starved me. You gave me small doses of approval, hooking me into the web of need, allowing me a taste of what it means to be validated by others and not myself. You took away my inner support, cut me off from the confident, kick-ass warrior within me and left me in the cold begging for one more taste of a warm gaze. You did this, and I let you.

I fell into your welcoming arms so quickly; didn’t notice the addict I became. Didn’t see how much I needed you. Now, I’m fighting back. I am becoming someone new. Someone who finds people to feed the girl within and not the girl I look like, people who grow the fire inside and not the hotness that is skin deep.

 I am fighting back. It will be hard. But you are no longer who I am trying to impress. Because guess what world, I am beautiful and. I am smart, funny, wise, empathetic, gentle, fierce, energetic, talented, loving, sweet, and kind. I can be all these things to myself. I can be enough.

Again

again
One word. Pretty simple, a word we use often, probably don't even think about the meaning anymore. Some of us, me included, have hated this word many, many times. It is a word I have often struggled with..."wasn't that good enough the first time?" "Why must I redo it," "why can't I be done now," "that's it, never doing that a second time." For most of my life I've lived in the idea that once you do something you shouldn't have to do it again or you can't do it again. Make a mistake? That's it, no more chances. Have a rough draft? That's actually your only draft, you're done. Everything had to be perfect. Everything was failed. There was never the chance to redo, correct, try again. But that's not true. This idea that I've had for so long is false. My mind made it up and lived by it for way too long. Everything, well most things, can be done again. Usually there is a chance to keep going. There's not a full stop. This is my equivalent to the semi-colon people who have considered suicide get, this is my YOLO, this is my life is beautiful, keep going. One word, not capitalized because it's not a start - it's a continuation of a journey. It's a promise that I have more than one chance. More than one chance to change my life, to become anew, to set a goal, to start. It's a vow to myself. I will be nicer, I will forgive, people make mistakes and start again. I am a person, I make mistakes, I have the chance for an again. 

Circular Thinking

Bridge the gap,

Bridge the gap,

Bridge the gap.

The more I say it, it will happen right?

I’ll make the distance shorter, easier to cross, and I’ll be okay again.

Right?

Focus.

Don’t fall into the emptiness.

Don’t fall.

Keep going…eyes up, feet moving.

Don’t fall.

Keep moving and it won’t happen right?

Keep moving and it won’t catch up. I’ll be okay.

Right?

Pull yourself together.

Find the pieces and glue them where they belong.

Find the pieces.

Find the pieces, complete the picture, and become whole.

Find the pieces.

Find the pieces and make yourself okay.

Right?

That’s all it will take.

To find the pieces, keep moving, and bridge the gap.

All I need to be okay.

Okay. Right?

Okay…not great, not perfect; just let me be okay.

For once, one moment, a chance, a day.

I want to be.

I want to be okay.

Caretaker

I spent the night crying. To you it seemed like I was searching for someone to love me. You took this in the most basic way. Said someday that person would come, I'd find them with time. But you don't get it. I've found that person. And I'm watching them disappear, fading right before my eyes.

I see her. I know she's there, at times she is truly present. I've known her. I've been a part of her. Now I'm searching for any part of her.

What if I lose her? What if my future never sees a glimpse of her? When she's gone, does her light fade away? Do the memories remain or do they fall out of the universe as quickly as they fall out of her head? If it is my job to carry her, who will carry me? What if I lose the strength, what if I lose the words and the thoughts, the structure crumbles until only a frame remains? What happens then, do we both crumble into the emptiness; where do we go if no one remembers?

They tell you how the disease takes hold. How the world begins to slow down, until the patient is stuck in a past destroying your future. The world doesn't tell you that the disease lives in the caretaker as well. They don't tell you how strong the need to freeze time will squeeze, they don't tell you how quickly and constantly your heart will break. Everyone looks for a cure for the patient, where's the cure for me?

Put on a smile. Fake the positive. Nod, "everything happens for a reason." Let them believe they are helping. Let them think they have a cure. Let them pretend that their band-aid words have stopped the hurting. Let them believe - because they need this.

Relax into your role. Caretaker. Here for her, here for them. Never here for yourself.