A letter long overdue
A letter to whom, some might ask. That's a great question. I don't know the answer to it. A letter to myself, I guess. If there was even the slightest chance of me addressing other people involved, I would have done it already. I should have. Perhaps it's just me who is supposed to read this. See? I haven't even started it and I'm already rambling. This is going to be fun.
I've been staring at the screen for half an hour, with words being vomited on the layers of my mind, but unable to string them into a proper chain of thoughts. I know what I want to say, but I think I probably don't want to hear it. The voices in my mind, they speak, I shush them. Then I encourage them to talk again until I just can't stand it anymore. Shut up, everyone. This is not fun. Am I driving myself crazy? How do I stop this train?
This letter should be read as someone screaming at the top of their voice inside a pillow. That's exactly what this is. A pain so big, muffled against the very fabric that sometimes keeps the secrets of my pleasure. I type this and I want to cry because this is most certainly not how I wish to feel. So torn, neither here nor there, unsure of the very air I breathe. And I still have the decency to get the pillow before I start yelling my insides out.
Another half-hour has passed, and the fingers that were supposed to be typing were instead scratching the skin until it bled. Again. As if they were trying to break from a prison that can't be seen, can't be physically torn down. There's a caged panther in it, silent, desperate, and alone. It walks back and forth with a hungry look in its eyes, not exactly hopeful but eager to escape. To survive. Who the fuck thought it was cool to lock animals down?
You stare into the eyes of the panther and smile, ignorant. If it's by choice or by mistake, I can't tell. I just know you don't really see, and never have, even when your body was the pillow I used to scream into. What exactly occupies so much of your mind? Have I gotten way too good at lying and hiding who I am? If I was a character on one of your video games, would you see me then? Would you listen? Would you do something?
I can't seem to recall where on earth did I learn it was okay to give up parts of me. Who the fuck taught me I wasn't pretty enough, smart enough, or good enough to have my desires acknowledged or respected. Years have gone by, and most of the time I'm no longer me, not outside these prison walls. I molded myself into something that wouldn't bother, that would sit idle for hours and be content with it, not really existing, when I'd rather be out there, hiking, singing, dancing, breathing. I shut almost everything good out of my life trying to be enough and didn't realize I was shrinking to fall into a place that does not fit me.
And I don't blame you, or anyone other than myself, even though I'm sure there was no way I could have known better then. I've lost count of the times I allowed people to trespass my boundaries, to shut me out of my own life, to touch me when and where I didn't want them to. That is over, and I say this to the part of me that might still think we owe something to someone other than ourselves. We don't. I don't even owe them a beautiful sight when this wreck threatens to become too real. I will allow myself to be me, neither beautiful nor wrecked. Just me. I can't be someone else but me.
I've lost count of the times I've said I can't breathe. People tend to overlook that statement, maybe they think I don't mean it, but I do. I can't remember the sensation of lungs fully filling with air, and I can't keep living like this. The weight that's holding me down it's mine to remove, that much I know. I have no idea where this road will take me, but at least I can be sure I'll have me every step of the way. This letter isn't such. I didn't write half the things I intended to, and maybe it's better that way. I know them, and that will have to do.
The girl that, even in pain, sings and dances like she's the last person on earth, for her own enjoyment only, taking pleasure in every second of it. That's me. This is a letter to her.
I'd like to thank you for reading this. I hope my words resonated with you in some way. If they did, or even if they didn't, I'd like to further connect with you, so I invite you to drop a comment and I'll answer it as soon as I can.
Source of the image:
📷 by Alexander Krivitskiy