Thoughts on Paper

Both my writing and my reality have become this secret world I dare not share. I feel stuck as if I am in some cocoon waiting to emerge. Not knowing if I will arrive as a butterfly or simply a moth. Or perhaps I won't emerge at all. Even writing now in this free form style without thought is almost liberating. And the lies continue on a daily basis, hiding myself and my secret from everyone. The stress of it all is starting to wear on me and even as I scroll through online services just to find one person like me, I want my support in person. Cyber hugs just won't do. And my inner voice yearns for a mother I have never known. There is no consoling me at this time. I am truly alone.

It's merely days now before the anniversary of my birth. The thought of celebrating is so distant, when my mood is despondent and bleak. Every morning I wake up quietly hoping that my reality feels less a nightmare and more a fantasy. My childhood dreams had not prepared me for this. I am finding myself slipping daily into some abyss when I know as time goes on, there is a light at the end of this tunnel. Maybe tunnel isn't actually accurate, perhaps it's best described as a door. Because doors provide option even though at the moment I feel encased in my situation, alone in my head, solo in my journey and empty of choice.

I have come to rely on the kindness of those few I have allowed into my narrow world. I am exhausted by my own words and have turned to this medium to express myself, insecure with the thought that I may indeed be taxing those around me. I feel a desperation to find support and have come up empty handed. I am aware I am drowning and actually want to be preserved. And again, it's time I need, but like a junkie I want the instant gratification of truly knowing I am going to be just fine. Each morning is that reminder of my uncertainty. And all the blood, there is just so much of it. I crave a morning without reminders, I would embrace a day that creates no memory, just the humdrum of existence.

And some mornings I just wake up angry. My body is a complete stranger to me. I don't understand any of it's pains. Today I took the prophylactic deciding that I didn't need to know how I felt. I knew to feel pain only affected my mood for the day. And how much I yearned for movement, for intimacy, to feel independent. Damn I hated to ask for help. Last night I found myself sweeping my dirty home, crying through the pain because I was just to stubborn to ask anyone to help me. This morning I gave in and wrote the only person who was watching me bang my head over and over. I despised turning to him feeling no confidence that he truly didn't mind lending a hand.

Since when had I become this independent? Had I become my own fair weather friend? Only wanting to see my reflection when I felt my best. The word's of my mother echoing in my head, "no one cares about your problems, so keep them to yourself." But like an illness, my disease of secrecy only made me sicker by the minute. And I knew as I looked at the image of her surgically sculpted face that behind every peel and cut of the knife, she was sicker than me.