Today I woke up recalling every mistake I've ever made.
It was awful. God-forsakenly awful. Every humiliation, every talk back, every human error I've even thought of making came vividly to mind. I couldn't get a clean breath in. I woke up realising my every flaw, every fall and every fail. I remembered all the women I am not and will never be. I remembered all the beauty I will not contain, all the talent I cannot behold, all the skills I wont learn, all the courage I can't stomach.
Everything came to mind. Everyone who unfriended and unfollowed. Every moment that went to shit and buried itself in the pocket of my psyche. I was consumed with grief. I recalled every opportunity lost and will continue to lose. All the people who left and are considering to leave. All the miss-shapes and all the mishaps. All the ugly and all the rotten. Everything that went wrong and nothing that went right. It's been an insufferable morning.
I have worries and concerns. Why can't I write what I feel anymore? Why does everything sound so empty when I feel so deep? Why can't my one escape keep its doors open for me? Even inspiration has grown tired, motivation; M.I.A. Everyone including my very best self has left me. Everyone is harsh and horrible and no one will help. No one is believing it's this hard, and it's suffocating. I've been roped off at the neck and left to hang dry. The juice has emptied, my feet aren't even dripping, they're dead and covered in dust.
I am trying so hard to move forward. I want the old freedom these Autumn winds once offered, but I also recall past Autumns filled with ambivalent hearts. The sky is lavender blue and the sun is yolk yellow and the breeze is refreshing, clean and green, but my mind is wandering and thoughtless and unsure. Everyone seems fine but me. Everyone is dutiful and everyone is right. Some people are wholesome and sweet. But I'm unfinished and chaotic and dusty and blue.
It's afternoon now and I still haven't caught the calm. I don't even miss a cup of tea. My heart is beating overwhelmingly fast and I feel like my heavy head is sinking into my neck. My shoulders are so cramped. The tension exists everywhere. I want to pull a string or cut one. I can't cut strings, all ties are in tact but begrudgingly so. I am forced to feed circles that left me unfed. I am trying so hard to remember to feed myself.
I don't want anyone else to suffer because my head is not where I can keep it. My husband is delightfully happy. He is a sunflower in a field of wilted grass (me). A big wide enduring grass mass that is only seldom a daisy meadow but mostly a weed farm. I noticed why this sunflower stays so healthy despite his surroundings. It's because at the root is a circle of soil he keeps clean and away from any sharp blades of grass. Distance is kept and flower is out of harms way.
I am harmful because I am hurting. Have you ever thought about that? That instead of riding the surf of your troubles, carried like a victim in need of saving, you are in fact the Big Bad Blue wave. Washing ashore and engulfing all the people, rather than whispering and pooling around their joyous bodies, you swallow them whole and mercilessly. I am not a wave, I am an ocean of trouble and troubled pasts. I am the anger and the pain untransformed. What a pure shame, that I haven't used this body of water to cleanse the disaster that happened.
It was awful. God-forsakenly awful. Every humiliation, every talk back, every human error I've even thought of making came vividly to mind. I couldn't get a clean breath in. I woke up realising my every flaw, every fall and every fail. I remembered all the women I am not and will never be. I remembered all the beauty I will not contain, all the talent I cannot behold, all the skills I wont learn, all the courage I can't stomach.
Everything came to mind. Everyone who unfriended and unfollowed. Every moment that went to shit and buried itself in the pocket of my psyche. I was consumed with grief. I recalled every opportunity lost and will continue to lose. All the people who left and are considering to leave. All the miss-shapes and all the mishaps. All the ugly and all the rotten. Everything that went wrong and nothing that went right. It's been an insufferable morning.
I have worries and concerns. Why can't I write what I feel anymore? Why does everything sound so empty when I feel so deep? Why can't my one escape keep its doors open for me? Even inspiration has grown tired, motivation; M.I.A. Everyone including my very best self has left me. Everyone is harsh and horrible and no one will help. No one is believing it's this hard, and it's suffocating. I've been roped off at the neck and left to hang dry. The juice has emptied, my feet aren't even dripping, they're dead and covered in dust.
I am trying so hard to move forward. I want the old freedom these Autumn winds once offered, but I also recall past Autumns filled with ambivalent hearts. The sky is lavender blue and the sun is yolk yellow and the breeze is refreshing, clean and green, but my mind is wandering and thoughtless and unsure. Everyone seems fine but me. Everyone is dutiful and everyone is right. Some people are wholesome and sweet. But I'm unfinished and chaotic and dusty and blue.
It's afternoon now and I still haven't caught the calm. I don't even miss a cup of tea. My heart is beating overwhelmingly fast and I feel like my heavy head is sinking into my neck. My shoulders are so cramped. The tension exists everywhere. I want to pull a string or cut one. I can't cut strings, all ties are in tact but begrudgingly so. I am forced to feed circles that left me unfed. I am trying so hard to remember to feed myself.
I don't want anyone else to suffer because my head is not where I can keep it. My husband is delightfully happy. He is a sunflower in a field of wilted grass (me). A big wide enduring grass mass that is only seldom a daisy meadow but mostly a weed farm. I noticed why this sunflower stays so healthy despite his surroundings. It's because at the root is a circle of soil he keeps clean and away from any sharp blades of grass. Distance is kept and flower is out of harms way.
I am harmful because I am hurting. Have you ever thought about that? That instead of riding the surf of your troubles, carried like a victim in need of saving, you are in fact the Big Bad Blue wave. Washing ashore and engulfing all the people, rather than whispering and pooling around their joyous bodies, you swallow them whole and mercilessly. I am not a wave, I am an ocean of trouble and troubled pasts. I am the anger and the pain untransformed. What a pure shame, that I haven't used this body of water to cleanse the disaster that happened.
Greek St. is this strange little planet of feelings. It's home to all old stuff but not home to me. Sometimes I zone out and try to reposition myself, and I realise just how lost I've become. I imagine what it was supposed to be like; the apartment, the breaking of my fast in my first Ramadan without my parents, the kitchen and it's willingness to have me in it, my sense of space and my concepts of privacy and the daily invitation of the sun, super white walls and adequate room that I took so quickly for granted before. And then my thoughts are hurled back to the harsh present. How we are sorta impishly side-stepping around each other in some ways, and stark-naked-standing face to face in others.
I attempt daily forgiveness tasks a little too frequently for my liking. If the killing of 7 roaches a day means I don't get to fold the washing tower for another week then I'll accept it. I've been trying to stretch out these long periods of self-okaying. It's not quite care or love it's more just like a free pass to get on with things that are so much heavier than normal.
The current isolation issue cornered me real hard and fast. I thought I was a home body. I thought I liked spending all moments in my shoebox enclosure. But I hate it, and each day that passed the walls continued to cave in. "I just need air!" I would shout, and my baby sunflower would look to me confused, I hadn't even opened the window yet.
I will always be free to make the choice to transform feelings of deep pitying grief into hopefulness. I can always say tomorrow will most likely not be immediately better than today, tomorrow in fact may be worse, but in a years time, at the very least, I can guarantee something will be different. BUT; yes, there's always that buttery "but", I can imagine, in my oldest, greyest, dankest imagination, that some things I'm feeling now, I won't feel again, or I'll feel differently about. Some things I might even have the pleasure of forgetting all together. Like a midnight lobotomy, a memory disappears into dream dust, never to be awoken again. It might swim behind my ears, but my age will prevent me from calling its attendance, and I'll simply and sweetly and successfully forget.
I don't want to be like Mum. I don't want to keep tabs. I just want to let go, man. I just want to unchain. Why do I insist on carrying dead weight? It's as if I so badly want to validate why I am the person I am today, and maybe others will offer the same free pass I've been handing to myself every single day. What annoys me most is that, the free pass I'm asking for isn't really for others to give anyway. So why does it matter? If someone might pity me more or less than I do myself?
It's just because today, I struggle. And I thought the game would be up once I finally did some moving. But it only came rushing back for seconds, and I wasn't prepared and help just seems so damn far away.
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