Days blow by like the softest wind. Frustration scuttles into the crook of an open heart. There’s so much to say, but there are no words to say it. To give so much and to receive so little. The faintest glimmer of a new day. The sure hum of a promise. The unavoidable act of forgiveness. A never ending cycle. The days are blowing by like the softest wind.
There’s time. There’s time to count split ends and light candles; to drive slow and sing softly. There’s time to trace the lines around your eyes with a fingertip and draw constellations on your skin. Time enough to close your eyes and tilt your head back and smell the salt in the air even miles away from the sea. Time to seek your peace in the darkest of places and smile down on the lines in the road.
There’s time. There’s plenty of time.
- “For Women Who Are Difficult to Love,” Warsan Shire (via ewok-gia)
I need to learn to love my body
My bed is my sanctuary
You know what’s worse than not fitting in at a dinner table, in a library, in a train carriage filled with people? Not fitting properly into your own body, your shell, and essentially your home. I’ve never known what it’s like to be completely present in my body. Genuinely. This is difficult to explain but ahh… I’m just not here. I’m scattered. On most days I can feel energy in the top half of my head while the rest of me is airy. Sometimes it’s like being a third person watching myself while the ‘real me’ is doing whatever the hell it is I do all day (my sense of time is almost non-existant). My conscious memory is blotted and blurred. Stimulating conversations often fade prematurely because I disappear half way through. Sometimes I hear myself talking but I’m not in control of what I’m saying. On other occasions I catch glimpses of my reflection and can’t imagine it’s me. This will probably sound like nonsense to most people but I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’ve never really felt like I’ve had a body (well, not permanantly anyway). I’ve been functioning on autopilot for so long and it’s really fucking frightening. I’m not completely present as I write this. At the moment I’m seeing an amazing natural therapist who’s suggested that this is my coping mechanism; that when my threshhold for suffering is reached I float away from the material world to deliver myself. I learned to escape at a young age and I can’t remember a time when I’ve ever felt grounded. When I tell people about how I feel they respond, “oh, I wish I could disappear whenever I wanted to,” as if it’s some kind of joke, but no. No, no, no. For once, I just want to belong beneath my skin.
And then I realized that if I wanted to enjoy a meaningful life, I’d have to burn, to shatter, to find something that I love and let it kill me.
My mother never fails to make me feel like I’m never going to amount to anything.
Sometimes I don’t notice the battle, then all of a sudden it’s like I have soldiers of different armies, with opposing goals, fighting it out within me.
I remember when words became a necessity. It didn’t happen overnight, it didn’t bloom from nothing, it wasn’t like the explosion of a star or the shock of lightening on a perfectly sunny day in the middle of August. It was slow burning, patient, underground but unstoppable, and I couldn’t understand it at first. I didn’t know what was going on. It was almost like being sick. Cells were being rewritten, bone marrow was changing from deep, majestic purple to the hazy azure of bluebird eggs, the fleshy pallet of my brain hungered for the thing I wasn’t sure I wanted. I’d feed myself a book monthly, but my body latched onto it like it was manna from heaven. I tried drinking water, thinking my hunger was actually that: stomach pains from not enough food.
But then I’d see it in my mind’s eye: books. Endlessly books. Thick, thin, paperback, hardcover, books from the library, books in stores that smelled like coffee beans and warm ink; illustrated books with shiny white paper, books with pop up images and books with print so small you needed a magnifying glass to decode it. But it wasn’t the books themselves that I wanted. Touching them didn’t curb the ache. It was the words inside of them I lusted after, syllables and conjunctions and descriptions and the things characters said and did that stayed with me for hours, sometimes days, afterward. I developed heartburn from books at the age of seven. It’s terminal, and there’s no cure for it. I suggest two books a week and a glass of warm milk with cinnamon. The comforting thing? You’re not alone.