Discovering Myself
A girl was born. A common occurrence. This particular girl was made to be a certain way in order to live in this world.
Made to conform to what her family wanted of her.
Made to worry about things that were not hers to worry about.
Made to not think of herself.
Made to not think about what she wanted from life.
Made to not think what was inside her heart. Inside her brain. Inside her gut.
She was taught to ignore everything but what they wanted from her.
Needed from her.
She was groomed like a botanist grooms a bonsai tree. One snip at a time. One cut. Some deep. Some shallow. But all the cuts equaled a tree totally conforming to what was required. With no regard to her heart. With no regard to her brain. With no regard to her gut. With no regard to her soul.
The girl never thought to question.
Never thought to say no.
Never thought to do what she wanted.
No. Needed.
She had learned to ignore all signals from her body.
Did you know you can train a body out of that? You can. I don’t need to look that up. I know. Because it happened to me. I can still do it if I want, I can ignore what is in my heart, brain, and gut. Easily. As easily as a duck slips into the water.
This girl grew into a capable woman. She had been a capable girl, so why wouldn’t she be a capable woman?
She did it all. Lived for everyone but herself. Lived for her children. Lived for her husband. Never checking her inside life. Never asking for anything. From anybody.
She was self-contained. Capable.
She was fine. But what is fine? A veneer at best. A sea of sadness swelling below the surface at worst.
When you can easily slip into the ether of your own mind, it’s easy. So easy. Maybe this is what heroin does to someone? For me, I made it myself, the oblivion. It came easily.
Then that woman got sick. Very sick. No one knew why. She just was. No one could help. She just had to deal with it. She knew the trick of dealing with any “it” but none of it was enough. It kept getting worse.
It kept tearing her down one cut at a time until she lay bleeding on the couch. With no hope and no future. Blood running down the couch cushions.
Somehow she found the will to stop the blood flow. To put a finger on the blood that trickled out. Does anyone realize the strength that took? To not let it drip, one drop at a time. drip drip drip. Till all the blood was gone. Till her life force could not be retrieved from the floor.
It was mesmerizing, watching that blood drip. So mesmerizing that putting your finger on the blood flow almost seemed wrong.
Somehow, that woman stood the fuck up. Looked around and started changing things.
One step at a time. One small step at a time.
Found people that could help plumb her soul. Reach her depths.
Opening up the box, first with a chain removed, then a small peak inside. That proved too difficult. The chain had to go back on. There was too much inside that box.
It felt like the time she went snorkeling on a charter boat. Stopping the boat, you looked over the side and there was the deepest blue of water, almost black, for it had no end. That was what it meant to look inside that box, staring into an abyss.
Full of scared little girl dreams and the waking life horror that filled her days.
There was too much in that box, they may as well have thrown me over the side of that charter boat without a life jacket and sped away. That was what it felt like to look inside that box.
Little by little that box did come open. Little parts of herself started coming back to her. Remembered desires and remembered parts of her soul.
How far back does she have to go, to get back to what she was before the botanist started taking scissors to her soul?
Far. Far back. Very far back.
Right now. Today. I’m not sure the lid isn’t more than cracked open. It’s taken a year and a half to get the lid cracked. It may take another year and a half until she can fully look inside.
Like Pandora’s box, the lid can not be put back on. The chains can not be locked back up. The woman can no longer turn back. For to do so would be to return to the couch, watching her blood trickle out, one drop at a time.
A storm was born that day she started taking off those chains. The day she stood up from that couch.
She can not put the chains back on and she does not want to.
She’s never been free in her entire life. Free from the bondage of others. She won’t go back.
To go back would mean to allow the blood to trickle from her fingers to the floor.
Others are angry at the storm. Angry it started. They want the chains put back on.
But the woman and the little girl inside her will not allow it.
They can deal with the storm, for the girl had to deal with it, to learn to twist it tight up inside.
That will never happen again.
