The story she tells herself is that she’s the good guy. Which means any time she’s faced with an opposing truth, she must cast the opinion holder as the bad guy.
The story I told myself was related to the stories they tell themselves.
He tells himself he’s justified.
And there wasn’t much room for the story of my heart in that reality because it opposed both.
My voice became the physical manifestation of a belief instilled in me at the age of four.
I am a home wrecker.
My true self destroys things. And now that I’m trying to stand on my own two feet in this quicksand, I believe it’s possible for me to destroy.
Because there’s no room for my truth in that space.
in that room, when I am my true self, I’m beat down or cast aside, and when I try to leave they pull me back out of fear that my true self will effortlessly shine irl
In that room, my identity depends on being loved by people who don’t love me, who never loved me because their definition of love is opposite mine.
To step out in that state, not having any time to shake off the rubble, is to hold my heart above my head while crows and ravens pull at my aortas as if they’re worms.
In or out, I haven’t felt safe.
I haven’t felt safe.
How can my true self exist unfettered when I’m afraid after experience has taught me this is not possible.
Because it was fear, in spiritual truth, that kept me prisoner. Fear in the name of whatever came along to hurt me. Fear that refused to dissolve once named.
I gave fear that power, didn’t I?
Yet, there’s a matter (haha) of creating something from scratch alone, something I’ve never experienced.
All I saw was those who created together and those who tried to destroy each other apart.
The hall of mirrors brought more of the same in the rooms and out.
Maybe I’ve only ever subscribed to another’s reality because it’s all I’ve seen and known.
He said to me once, if you didn’t know what a sailboat was, would you be able to recognize it on the horizon.
This was after What The Bleep was popular.
My response? Of fucking course I would recognize it. It’s not like I wouldn’t fucking see a huge fucking sailboat that took up an entire horizon just because I couldn’t name it.
And you know what, I believe that love exists. It exists within me.
I just don’t know what it looks like.
Was he right? Was the movie he tried to explain to me back when I subscribed to his reality right?
Is this why I didn’t recognize love until later, when I felt something missing?
And is that the end of the story?
I guess it depends on who you ask.
What if I bring more people into this room you try to keep me in? How does that impact the physics?
Are you prepared for that, the protagonist yelled into the vents, whoever you are?
Even though I know, almost always, who he is.
Have you experienced that? Can you predict that trajectory with your tea leaves and your protractor?
Is it possible that your reality might be the one without room in that case?
I mean, I don’t know, but I think there’s something unjust about keeping a wholehearted person in your prison just because you don’t want your upper hand to droop a bit.
Or is that justified, too?
I bet it’s justified, too.
And what happens when I begin to believe that my heart’s truth deserves a room of her own?
Let me go.
This is how I get caught up. It’s gotten worse since I left. At least, that’s my perception.
Two many yous and they think I’m talking to them. They never leave me. I can’t figure out how to get away.
Something within me believes that I can’t speak your name unless I have permission. And I can’t say your name until it’s time. Until we live on the same page in the present moment. Please don’t ask why. You might see something you can’t unsee.
My hips hurt but no migraine. My hips hurt so much.