There is a heavy emptiness around my skin.
It is the weight of falling asleep in front of a tv around 12:34am at 6 years old.
It is the burden of telling no one in the moments after waking up in a strange parking lot in disheveled clothing with an empty condom wrapper staring at me from the floorboard.
It is the gravity of climbing in bed with an “It’s fine, I’m fine” another night after finding that the person I belonged to was still searching for someone to belong to.
It is pounds and pounds of all of those moments teaching me the lies that I am not worthy of being taken care of, being believed, being protected, holding space for, being faithful for, being valued or cherished.
It is why I devoured crumbs of affection as though they were five course meals. It is why I stayed too long, put up with his tolerance in exchange for my love and devotion. It is why I overthink every compliment, every declaration of friendship, every other’s attempt at relationship. I floated in waters of false belief for 30 years and have still not wrung out the droplets that soaked into my bones and my lungs.
It’s why I stay busy, always doing, always seeking more to do so I don’t have to sit and feel it bubble up to my brain and wake that voice that still lives there. That “nobody wants you” voice, that “nobody every did” voice. Because people take care of things they wanted. Because I take care of the people I want. The thought of my child not being put to bed with love breaks my heart. The thought of someone I care for hurting in silence destroys me. The thought of my person feeling discarded by me feels like freezer burn in my veins. So wouldn’t it do the same to them? Wouldn’t they have acted differently if they ever wanted me?
I hate those questions. I hate that I still care about the answers and that most of the answers are just “Does it matter? It still happened.” Or maybe even worse… “They just weren’t the ones who wanted you.”
I’m not even angry. Just still so damn sad. It’s futile but I want to know who I would have been. I want to know the version of me that didn’t have to swim upstream alone being beaten back my currents and stray boat paddles. I hate the idea that the hurt made me kind or intentional or any of the things that I am. I was already those things. Every story of memories I don’t have access to anymore is about how sunny and friendly and helpful and affectionate I was. Looking at pictures you can see it.
It hurts seeing how positively bright and happy I looked knowing how that little girl hurt every damn day. How fucking lonely I was all of the time. Nobody keeps sad pictures I guess, but I know how I mask and how I’ll play that part no matter what’s going on while people are looking.
When I sit still and there’s no one here holding me it’s like the entirety of my being is reaching out for someone else’s arms to swallow me up and make that weight around me melt away. I play the music and I write the poems and I watch the movies or drink the whiskey to try and quiet my begging body from feeling the pounds and pounds and pounds.
I’m so incredibly tired of being squashed by it.
0 comments:
Post a Comment