When you become a failure at death by suicide- too often it gets worse before it's better.
It is not a matter of seconds. minutes. weeks. It is the subtle shift in something so great that putting words to it would be comparable to a cross country road trip on one tank of gas. I cannot tell you when Virago escaped, nor can I remember much about the monster who did appear- but that is where I rely on stories. On writing. On a culmination of words carefully woven together through carefully kept notebooks saved for the moments of insanity wherein I can later recall the haunting events. It is pacing yourself through treatment, and finding patient people to work with you when you close off because the monster is a terror in your closet. It is the essence of doling out the subconscious thoughts in a manner when they are ready to be dealt with because after enough trauma- you either dissociate or you quit functioning.
Memories. A vivid array of hues from hospital rooms where I found freedom in understanding this "monster" too was human- but simply lacking the skill set to conquer her greatest fears. That perhaps in rebellion- be it pointed words, isolation, piercings, self harm, abuse of other forms or whatever- fear of living, of thriving, and emotions of hurt festered at the root of the real issues. You learn that using words and conversations to communicate did not indicate inherent weakness- rather, one of the bravest tasks. You see- words and dysfunction do not fit into a subtle mold- but I learn each day piece by piece. A functional woman who fell apart and backslid into a culmination of child and terror in one hellish form could easily describe the person I had become four years ago. For one who did not know better- I became an unrecognizable shadow of a functioning human that had been reduced to a mere shell.
Hollow became the mantra of a woman descending to girl in the years to follow. The way we shrink our chests, our legs, our bodies- in the hopes that perhaps men too, along with the rest of the world will be unable to see us. Unable to touch or harm us, but sadly it is the farthest thing from the truth. It is the guilt of people losing their jobs over ethics, politics and morals that weigh heavily on your shoulders- when in reality, their choice for harassment was no choice but theirs. It falls into the category "You didn't cause it, you can't control it, and you can't cure it," but it is still the same guilt you feel as you fall predator to the hands of other men who merely want you for not your body- but their own twisted fantasies. It becomes intoxicated nights where you try to drink to forget (That whole 1 glass of wine-not too effective for the record), but you know that is how some of these things happened in the first place. But its whatever because obviously you were asking for any mans attention. At least according to the outside world- the world of society and condoned rape culture. To that girl: I'm so sorry- and to the girl who would never open her mouth out of fear- I see you and hear you. To try and "protect" others is a line of thought when in reality I watch in hindsight the others I endangered with my selfish actions.
But there is also the light at the end of the tunnel. It is choosing treatment and surrendering your biggest battles regardless of wanting to curl into a ball. In hoping the world will absorb you- it takes a great deal of resilience to take up space and seek a life you deserve. It is opening your voice the first time and saying "I am hungry," and choosing to eat, go to therapy, and refill your hungry spiritually emaciated soul. It is in the end- moving on because life is not perfect and we too, are flawed.
Perhaps, in my greatest moments of perceived weakness- I have been learning how to bloom all along.
We trade our cuts, pills, and eating disorders for pills of a different kind and therapy. We learn that our journals and words might be the greatest gifts we have because expression does not always come quite so easily. It is being able to maintain eye contact in conversation for the first time in your life because you are growing, and aware the trauma in your life exists- but also choosing to be a victor over your past and present each and every day.
It is four years in the making of a warrior being dragged to life kicking and screaming, to eventually study psychology and become a body positive- mental health activist aspiring to change others lives. It is the light in knowing there may be storms- but you have won, and you win every day with the help of a Fathers love so incomparable to anything of this world. However, it is also the near 22 years of walking, breathing, speaking and simply being.
Because the beauty is we can all simply "be," and take up space as is- no strings attached- and that is enough. Oh what sweet, beautiful freedom.
It is not a matter of seconds. minutes. weeks. It is the subtle shift in something so great that putting words to it would be comparable to a cross country road trip on one tank of gas. I cannot tell you when Virago escaped, nor can I remember much about the monster who did appear- but that is where I rely on stories. On writing. On a culmination of words carefully woven together through carefully kept notebooks saved for the moments of insanity wherein I can later recall the haunting events. It is pacing yourself through treatment, and finding patient people to work with you when you close off because the monster is a terror in your closet. It is the essence of doling out the subconscious thoughts in a manner when they are ready to be dealt with because after enough trauma- you either dissociate or you quit functioning.
Memories. A vivid array of hues from hospital rooms where I found freedom in understanding this "monster" too was human- but simply lacking the skill set to conquer her greatest fears. That perhaps in rebellion- be it pointed words, isolation, piercings, self harm, abuse of other forms or whatever- fear of living, of thriving, and emotions of hurt festered at the root of the real issues. You learn that using words and conversations to communicate did not indicate inherent weakness- rather, one of the bravest tasks. You see- words and dysfunction do not fit into a subtle mold- but I learn each day piece by piece. A functional woman who fell apart and backslid into a culmination of child and terror in one hellish form could easily describe the person I had become four years ago. For one who did not know better- I became an unrecognizable shadow of a functioning human that had been reduced to a mere shell.
Hollow became the mantra of a woman descending to girl in the years to follow. The way we shrink our chests, our legs, our bodies- in the hopes that perhaps men too, along with the rest of the world will be unable to see us. Unable to touch or harm us, but sadly it is the farthest thing from the truth. It is the guilt of people losing their jobs over ethics, politics and morals that weigh heavily on your shoulders- when in reality, their choice for harassment was no choice but theirs. It falls into the category "You didn't cause it, you can't control it, and you can't cure it," but it is still the same guilt you feel as you fall predator to the hands of other men who merely want you for not your body- but their own twisted fantasies. It becomes intoxicated nights where you try to drink to forget (That whole 1 glass of wine-not too effective for the record), but you know that is how some of these things happened in the first place. But its whatever because obviously you were asking for any mans attention. At least according to the outside world- the world of society and condoned rape culture. To that girl: I'm so sorry- and to the girl who would never open her mouth out of fear- I see you and hear you. To try and "protect" others is a line of thought when in reality I watch in hindsight the others I endangered with my selfish actions.
But there is also the light at the end of the tunnel. It is choosing treatment and surrendering your biggest battles regardless of wanting to curl into a ball. In hoping the world will absorb you- it takes a great deal of resilience to take up space and seek a life you deserve. It is opening your voice the first time and saying "I am hungry," and choosing to eat, go to therapy, and refill your hungry spiritually emaciated soul. It is in the end- moving on because life is not perfect and we too, are flawed.
Perhaps, in my greatest moments of perceived weakness- I have been learning how to bloom all along.
We trade our cuts, pills, and eating disorders for pills of a different kind and therapy. We learn that our journals and words might be the greatest gifts we have because expression does not always come quite so easily. It is being able to maintain eye contact in conversation for the first time in your life because you are growing, and aware the trauma in your life exists- but also choosing to be a victor over your past and present each and every day.
It is four years in the making of a warrior being dragged to life kicking and screaming, to eventually study psychology and become a body positive- mental health activist aspiring to change others lives. It is the light in knowing there may be storms- but you have won, and you win every day with the help of a Fathers love so incomparable to anything of this world. However, it is also the near 22 years of walking, breathing, speaking and simply being.
Because the beauty is we can all simply "be," and take up space as is- no strings attached- and that is enough. Oh what sweet, beautiful freedom.
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