No one knew how it started, but Little Red Riding Hood wasn’t the same. Her family described her as the most ungracious child. She did not help out around the house, she scattered her belongings everywhere, she fought with her mother and she no longer saw her friends. She stopped going to school and slept all day instead. One day she traded in her red riding hood for one in black, the only trace of her old self the red ballet flats she wore. She then left home and moved into her grandma’s old house in the forest which had been vacant for years since the woman’s death. Continue reading “Little Black Riding Hood”
I’ve been isolated lately. I can handle being alone for long periods but eventually it begins to grate on me. It’s not so much an emotional connection that I am missing when I isolate myself but an intellectual one. That’s not to say that a sense of friendliness or comraderie is not appreciated when I interact with people but there is a greater need at my core. Continue reading “Intellectual Connection”
I will probably need to give this post a trigger warning, though to reassure anyone who is concerned, I opted instead to bleed with words.
I examine the blue veins highwaying my wrist
where your fingers rested a paper-slice away from my life force.
Veins visible and dramatic beneath my anorexic physique and translucent skin.
Veins like roots protruding the surface,
my insides and my dreams laid bare
for you to tender, if you wish, or slay.
I imagine slitting these veins.
These veins, once bursting with your love.
These veins now waterless river channels meandering to my heart.
Emptied as fast as they were filled.
Helplessly waiting for the next rain fall.
Hoping for the best, but expecting the worst.
Dying more and more as each day drags on.
The angel and the devil,
the villain and the hero,
Are one and the same.
So I push away both
and return to a solitary world
behind closed doors,
behind the stillness of night, my only friend,
and behind my bags yet to be unpacked.
Bags stained with the sour taste of my final day
when the silence, perhaps, said all there was to speak.
I have long believed that I am helping other people by telling them what they want or expect to hear. I will show them emotion that I do not truly feel, and constantly give them validation while I meanwhile invalidate myself and my own feelings. It has left me sadder, lonelier and angrier than ever, but what I have not realised until now is that, in the end, it often just hurts them as well. This is the truth that never occurs to many people pleasures. While well-intended, people pleasing really does no one any good.
Six years ago I was in a very unrequited relationship with a man I met when I started university. I made the mistake of telling him I loved him, when really I didn’t know the meaning or impact of those words. He ran with those words and they propped up all his fantasies about us. He got more and more attached to a closeness that wasn’t really there and to a person who didn’t really exist, and in the end it broke his heart terribly. I now find myself in a similar situation where I am hanging onto words and promises I don’t know whether this person meant. It is cruel to get your hopes up over something that is not going to happen. I’d rather people not be nice to me than say flowery things which have no substance. Realising what people pleasing does to both parties, I’m hoping I will be better able to speak my true feelings and resist the temptation to say things I don’t mean. I am starting to really admire people who are blunt, make it clear right from the start where you stand with them, and are bold enough to speak their truth, even if it risks offending others. They may not get credit for it but their bluntness is, in many ways, one of the kindest things they can do for us.
I’m no poet. I can’t paint with words. Can’t cast imagery or create art out of pain. All I can do is write it how it is.
I’m not an easy person to befriend. I have a constant need for validation. To know that I’m still doing things right. It’s my own flaw. A deep flaw. As ingrained into my character as a scar in flesh or a gorge where a river once flowed.
All my life I’ve been so afraid that I would drive away my friends that I would cling to any I had. Constantly trying to engage.
I would send texts after texts for fear that if I remained silent and distant that they would forget about me. Or perhaps that they would think I didn’t care.
I would over think every little thing that I did. If I were to receive a reply I would scrutinize it to the point of paranoia. “What were they feeling when they wrote it?” “Are they mad at me?”
I tried so hard that I drive people away. Ultimately I end up driving everybody away.
I have become a burden. A nuisance. I’m so enveloped by my fear of failure that I have lost my ability to consider what others might be feeling or need.
Now I’m here.
I want to know if you can bear the throb of abandonment,
And not abandon your own soul.
I want to know if you can be your biggest cheerleader,
Your own knight in shining armour,
When no one is by your side.
As I have written about in another post, one of my all time favourite stories is White Oleander. The book/film is about a young foster girl called Astrid who moves from foster home to foster home, tragedy following her everywhere. There is a moment in the film where Astrid’s social worker offers her a good foster family. Instead Astrid chooses Rena. Staggering across the yard in high heels, a low-cut spaghetti top bulging with boobs, a pencil skirt, and sunnies, Rena screams bad news. The reason Astrid chooses such a shitty foster home is because the pain of finding love and then losing it is worse than the pain of not having been loved at all. Hope is not always our friend, and the higher we go, the greater we have to fall. Continue reading “Love: a double-edged sword”
As I was watching Harry Potter the other evening, I was thinking how this hospital to me is very much what Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is to Harry. I’m sure all who have stayed in a psych hospital can attest to that strange feeling separation, or insulation, from the world beyond. Your sense of time changes and mental health is no longer something you have to hide. When you leave there is a distinct feeling of crossing a veil much like platform nine and three quarters. The hospital is a parallel world, and a world I’m finding I much prefer, despite the difficulties I’ve had in here. Continue reading “A real life Hogwarts”