I used to know what I was moving towards. I had a magnetic north that was a constant. It was a given. Every step took me closer and it made sense. I don’t know what to do now that it’s gone. I feel like I’ve lost my compass entirely and I’m just spinning. There is no direction because I have nothing to move towards. It’s nauseating and the tranquil silence of inevitability I marveled in has dissolved. Now silence has taken on another meaning. There is no peace. I used to know that whatever happened, this was a map dot. It was absolute if it was worked for and reached for. Reality is a bitch and it shatters like a bubble made of glass that’s been dropped on the pavement.
I don’t know how to pick up the pieces. I don’t WANT to pick up the pieces. I want to wake up and find out that I’m just having a nightmare. That the past four nights of nightmares are just within one greater bad dream. Tonight my body rejected sleep entirely. I can’t say I blame it. What comes when I sleep steals my breath. It siphons what little sense of self I had right out of me.
At times when I walk this earth, I don’t feel human. Humans are violent. They are content to rip each other to shreds for such trivial things. They destroy each other and drown each other for no reason other than it was easier for them that way. Forgiveness in humans is conditional. Love…more of the same. In truth, I wish I wasn’t human. I can’t seem to bar up my heart. I feel everything and in such magnitude that I wish I felt nothing. I can’t turn it off. I love too big and too openly for someone who’s never been loved unconditionally. The knowledge of who I am at my core allows for self-love but always reaches beyond for something external. It wants more, it wants different. I suppose that makes sense. The tragic piece of always searching for what is so desperately wanted is that when one thinks they’ve found it…well it’s everything.
I was born out of a lack of love and adopted into conditional love and expectation. I was grown in a womb that was a rented space. I wonder if she ran her fingers over me, contemplated my movements, my future. Probably not. She couldn’t abort me because she was catholic. I must have been like a parasite, distorting her body and to be walked away from as soon as possible. And she did. As soon as I was out of her body. I was alone in a hospital for two weeks after that. I’m not sure what happens to a baby who, at birth, has never been loved even a single moment after their conception, who is left alone in that emptiness before a home finds them, but my adoptive father has suggested before that children like me are only left with abandonment issues. I fought against his opinion, knowing in my bones he was wrong but perhaps not. Perhaps that is why I cling to anything that feels like acceptance. Why the rejection from my adoptive parents doesn’t send me reeling away even though it’s obvious that genetics do play a part in fitting in a family. I’m that one puzzle piece that seems to have the right picture but there is no space I fit in. And if something feels like love…oh the stupidity I trudge myself through. And every time it turns out that I’m not loveable after all.
I wonder if something shines out of me that is at first magnetic, then blinding and then terrifying. If I emanate some sort of pheromone that says “she seems amazing but you should still drown her, just in case.” I’m so tired of it. This time I was so unprepared. I was so sure. I thought I was safe. I fell once for him, twice for pieces of him. Stupid girl. Safe is not having a heart. Safe is cold steel. If only I’d been born a tin man. I’d happily rust and freeze right now if it meant not feeling these waves of reality that keep pulling me into riptides of anguish. They pull me under over and over and swimming to the surface only works if you know where the surface is. I know nothing right now.
What I thought I knew…what was so woven through me….these fibers that have warmed my skin and comforted me through so much…it is turning out to be maybe no more than a chimera. The strands I thought were mine are being pulled out like lengths of razor wire. I keep waiting to bleed out and that finality remains just out of grasp. I have raked all of my matches against the wall and sit waiting for absolution and it doesn’t come. I’m not found frozen, gone to somewhere bucolic. I’m not sea foam rising out of the cage that was my body. It seems I’m in purgatory, imprisoned in my own raw, stinging flesh.
It seems so unnatural that life doesn’t stop for moments like these. That in the morning, I’ll get up, I’ll get dressed, I’ll go about my routine and nothing comes crashing to a halt or comes to hold me when I start to drown in what is left unfinished. I have mouths to feed. I have work to do. Life doesn’t care. And hope…hope is a fucking bitch that I would give anything to smother. But she’s all I’m left with. And so I’ll cling to her unless she too proves to be made of smoke and mirrors and shatters with a rock of truth. I’m waiting for it, here in the vast expanse of oblivion that’s claimed me. I can’t move. The abandoned fairy circle I sit in is all that keeps out the tornado of broken glass that is waiting to further perforate me and bury jagged shards in my skin. Maybe when all of this is over I’ll be so gutted that I’ll be unrecognizable. Enough of me will have torn away that I’ll be numb. Just the though is relief. It is temporary though, because I also know that odds are I’ll pick up my remains, mold them into something acceptable, and be left to continue my walk through the dark; to find some semblance of healing. At least I still have my scintillation of hope, waiting for her moment to blast all of this away. That’s all it would take. Just a tiny spark. At least whatever is waiting can’t be worse. Ah fate, fickle demon, with those words I’ve tempted you again.