Every single year that comes around, there’s this dying need for humans to make a list of things they’d usually reserve for a bucket list and then try ti achieve it in a year. I was that human. Join the gym, lose weight, eat healthier, travel more, read more, watch more movies. Except those are quite hard to do with such a flat description. I’ve struggled to figure out of goals and resolutions are one in the same and truthfully, I’m making them different. This year, there’s no list of bullet points of things I want to do, there’s an in-depth list of things that I am going to work on and hopefully soon say I’ve accomplished. So, what’re my goals this year?
The day goes by in a lull. Between my ears are the static of a television not turned on. I’m not here, so if you could so kindly leave a message, I promise to get back to you eventually, soon, at some point in the near future, maybe never. This is what happens when I’m a shell of existence and I can’t find a way to associate to anything or anyone, including myself. This is what happens when I begin to disassociate.
It’s not often that I find myself staring at my skin and tugging at my strands of hair saying this isn’t me. There’s different episodes of this out-of-body phenomenon. Sometimes this isn’t me. Sometimes I’m trapped inside this vessel of self-destruction and self-harm in need of constant validation. Most of the times it’s reading over the words I share on social media, primarily Twitter, and seeing how little I relate to the speaker, myself. A lot of the time, I just don’t feel a thing.
It’s more than not feeling like myself. It’s more than looking at my actions and standing there baffled as I work through the chaos to see me, or a figment of myself in the debris. It’s the admission of my mistakes that send me spiraling into an identity crisis of not knowing this person I’m forced to call me. Sometimes it’s the words of my father belittling me in the jokingly way he tends to do that makes me look at myself as a shadow of … someone.
The truth is that this is only me. This is the only me I ever am but I feel like sometimes who is making for attention and sometimes even hiding behind her anxious tendency to hide from every human being isnt always what I can call myself. More than often it’s deeper. Deeper than this identity scare to where I wake up not feeling the pain that constantly explode within my nerves. There is nothing. Staring at television without wonder or care, looking into the eyes of my daughter who looks nothing like me and not wondering about her opinions of me.
Feeling nothing scares me the most.
I’m the child of addiction. I was not made through addiction rather than being raised in it. What haunts me about their disease is that in the midst of feeling nothing, their disease could easily become my own. Their addiction to feeling good and feeling everything may become a desire. One day I may want to feel the sensational tingle in my nose of the rolling euphoria that comes with the first puff. The good this is I can’t afford their addiction, I can’t afford their disease but I can afford to eat. So maybe the satisfaction comes from a different kind of high.
What scares me more is that one day I may realize that I’ll never be my “self”. I very well may never be the image of this self that has never been. The realization that never being me, being whole, being who I am proud of and always sure of terrifies me because I may deny myself the chance to do so. Sure, I’ve prided myself on being stubborn about forcing the foot to kick the bucket, but it’s forever a fear. I can’t leave this world without giving myself a chance.
There’s a prayer of sorts that I tuck deep into the pockets of my soul. One day I won’t be riddled by the diseases I can no longer see. One day all of this sadness and anger and tired and lost will no longer drag me down to the darkness in which I’ve lived for more than half my life. I pray, to who listens, that I find myself within myself and one day smile at her. I pray, to whoever I have pleased in my days, that I won’t be cured but that I be well.
One day I’ll see myself as I’m supposed to.
I don’t think I have any more apologies residing within me. This requires me to start from the top: I didn’t grow up knowing that my womanhood would always be resorted to my abundance of emotions. There were so many things in the world that were never my own doing but I felt responsible for. What was harder to deal with was that growing up I was always blamed for being so apologetic and sad because of my unstable emotional state. I would ask my grandmother how she would deal with these feelings of, say, rejection or not feeling good enough for saying something that inadvertently hurt someone’s feelings. Her answer was always the same, and still is as I’m older, which was, “Shit happens.”
Dear Ex Bestie (or whatever nickname we gave to one another at the time),
It would be rude of me not to ask about your life. Are you happy? Well fed? Is life coming together well for you and yours? How’s work? Is your love life plentiful?
I think it’s only right to break the ice, to say something that I have no shame in doing but sometimes too stubborn to say: I’m sorry. I am sorry for not being the bigger, better person by expressing my frustrations and disgust with your behavior. I’m sorry for not being able to face you and tell you all your wrong doings despite how right you thought you were.
I want to explain why I broke away from “us.” I want you to finally know after almost half a decade as to why I cut all ties. It’s because I had to. You were toxic and painful, manipulative and a bully. You hurt me, you belittled me, you defamed my character all for the sake of you. For you to be the shining star in the sea of “ugly fish.” You wanted to be desired by everyone and keep everyone to yourself for yourself. In return of the countless hours I spent soothing you, consoling you, and ultimately bonding with you, I was treated like shit. I felt like myself with you, I felt like I had found a true love in a best friend to be returned with insults about my shape, my weight, my tits, and even my feelings about your friends who showed interest in me. But how could they when I was no you. How could they care for a chick with ugly tits shaped like a fish in comparison to the almighty YOU.
This isn’t a grudge. This is me finally acknowledging that you never wanted a friend, you just wanted someone to make you look better. You wanted a fan. All you ever wanted was to hear you were amazing and great, beautiful and fantastic, creative and super funny when in actuality you’re miserable. You’re the embodiment of misery and the utter lack of ambitions.
You want to be praised. Constantly, from men, your friends, and even your family. You want to be the superstar of a small shitty town when I have always seen through you. You’re hurt and lonely, you’re desperate for something you’re too afraid to ask for. I wanted you to see that. I wanted you to understand that I knew how that felt and you didn’t have to be that person with me. I know the real you, I saw the true you and in the end I was belittled. Because you’re the Queen Bee making slaves out of friends, you made it known to the hive that I was nothing more than a sad lonely fat hag. And that’s who you truly are. That is who you will forever think you’ll be and I that’s why I cut all ties with you.
I’ve wanted nothing more than the best for you. I loved you truly and unconditionally, and that’s why I couldn’t let you take advantage of me anymore.
I deserved better from a friend, and I have that. I’ve always had that but I would never have that with you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry you still haven’t learned your lesson.
Facebook holds a plethora of shareable images that always challenge you to share it for the love of this or for an Amen for that. Some of these images I like to share, mostly being memes and quotes that ring true to not just myself but those around me, but what I also find myself encountering are the more parental based images. The maternal ones. The “share if you love your mom” or “share if you’d be lost without your mother” sort of photos that I constantly dread to see every mother’s day. It’s not that I don’t agree that a mother doesn’t hold this importance in someone’s life, it’s just that they don’t and will never apply to me.