Mother always said, "Girls need to wear dresses to look pretty." I never wore one does that mean I'm not pretty? Father always said, "Girls don't say 'dude'." I say it because I want other's to feel comfortable around me. Mother always said, "You're stubborn like your father's family." I dislike being compared to my father's side of the family. To them I am a ghost, a freak at most. Father always said, "Your like your mother always yelling." I don't like being told I act like my mother. A Mother always said, "Girls wear heels to feel pretty." I never learned to walk in them; however, I never took interest in them. Father once said, " You know what I really hate you." All I did was return the food that belong to you, I meant no harm. Mother always said, " Girls need to be thin to look pretty in a dress." I'm no where near thin, I've struggled with my physical appearance, what they aren't aware I tried to starve myself. Mother always said, Father always said, Mother this, Mother that, Father this, Father that. Mother and Father are always right, but they aren't aware of how much damaged they caused.
Crying alone, only the walls hearing my pitiful cries, how pathetic.
From the beginning of man, love slowly began to split, always certain people to feel God's care. When I was born, love was shattered into many pieces, too many to count. Most of my life, love stepped on me, as if I wasn't there. I was invisible to the heart of others. Love had it's mind set on other things, other people, and I was only a mere figment that had to share the love of others.
I spent my whole life trying to figure out how not to be seen. This would not be apparent from those around me. They would describe me as loud, always talking, seeking attention, maybe even confident. The irony is that those traits are not who I am inside. Inside I am quiet, shy, anxious and uncertain. It is confusing, even to myself. I found out that I am an extroverted introvert - officially an oxymoron. I use my "extrovert" mask to cover up fear of uncomfortable silence and anxiety about how to end the conversation. Small talk exhausts me - and yet, I desperately seek the words to ask the next question - to keep the conversation going because the pain of the awkward silence is worse than the pain of the small talk. Sometime life seems like a series of choices made while navigating between the things that fill you with fear and leaning into what is perceived as the lesser pains - you string a series of these moments together and get through the minutes, the hours the days. You exist. You keep things moving, keep busy, keep filling your quiet mind with chatter, filling your external world with unwanted stimulation - visual noise, auditory noise in the form of words, mindless chatter, random reading, listening, watching, moving and all the while, the anxiety is there - just beneath the surface stretching under your chest; if you slow down enough, you find that under the anxiety - waiting in the silent cavity of your soul is the pain and fear - patiently waiting its turn.
I have lived my whole life insode this carcass of flesh and bone and never knew who i was until recent. I had been invisible to myself as well as the who;e world. It wasnt until after facing the childhood pain i kept buried weighting down the self i never knew, it wasnt until feeling those pangs of pain that i was able to begin to see that little boy and finally comfort him, and connect with that poor soul buried so many years ago, trapped in the chaos of life, buried alive but not really alive. You can imagine the feeling after an hour or so of those tears that poured down now old cheeks. I becme visible for the first time, if only for a moment, i saw with new eyes, i had awakened from a big sleep.