Maybe it’s the shadow’s of writing at three am, half eaten chocolate fudge long-forgotten in the anxious scrolling to find the quote to put here…
“I wish I were a girl again, half-savage and hardy, and free.”― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights
or the heavy filling in my soul. It’s likely the latter. If I were to write my feelings out, it would be a dwelling, obese monster radiating the hurt I try to want to convey. I don’t write anymore, and, thus, I’ve hit the standstill point.
I have PTSD and OCD. Coming to grips with my disorders is grasping onto the monkey bars when you’re seven. You have to fall in order to learn. Only, this time, I’m 20, recalling past memories, driving my mind into a grove, and I can reach the floor while touching the top of the bars. Now, my hands are clammily reverting into a child’s grip my weight can no longer support the realities of. Each day swallowing my imagination, I find myself gasping for the breathing I once had before. Days begin to blend into time, and time loses herself in the raps of censure.
Most of my days are fracas. The melee of my day is to just wake up to feel normal, adequate, and alive. When the majority of my youth struggles with some form of mental illness, I struggle with accepting, living, and thriving with my own objects of horror. Fearing the stigma of being labeled as “too soft” or “growing up”, I find my own dismay in allowing myself to open as a human should.
To me, I am a harder person. Mother raised her girls to be tougher, rougher, as she always says, that mother of mine. I find myself stuck in my stubborn ways, oftentimes, when I ought reach out for the hand that just might ease my burden. However, the label in my brain urges me to handle my own keep because, ‘you earn your keep, and play harder’, as momma always said. Coming in handy is the last of my thoughts for use of my rough-mother model, but the use of tender moments for ME is where I feel authentic. Finding those moments, looking at them, and actually seeing them is an emotion in itself.
The largest part of me lives in authenticity, and I will never leave shards of myself for others to be pricked in such manners. I want to leave seeds blowing through the atmosphere – going no more than 5 miles. Like a dandelion, I want hope to dote upon you While I may not always have the emotional idea, the logical part of me knows this lapse in doubts make me a human, the feeler finding type.
Y’know that feeling when you accomplish something? I always loved the monkey bars, no matter how blistered or how many woodchips got into my knees. The red grasp of a grip writhing the palms of youth into callused hands is signification of living.
With pain comes growth.