Untitled Revelation

It’s odd to watch yourself bleed out into someone else, to watch yourself become something else so easily, to change like a Chimera from day to day, shape-shifting-colour-taking in so many ways it seems as though you’re not longer yourself in this body. You are no longer in this body. You don’t even know who YOU are. This body doesn’t FIT right, there’s too much there, not enough here. Your teeth are too sharp. Your hair is too frizzy. You can’t bite the palms of your hands with your nails because they flaked off because you just didn’t care enough to cut the hang nails. You’re lips are too big. Your toes look too funny. You want to shake you head and snarl at the reflection staring back at you each time you glance in a mirror. You want to break that glass, pull out that picture, destroy it. Rip it up. Forget what you look like together.

I’m getting there. I’m getting there again in ways I don’t want to admit. I’m tired of sucking in, I’m sick of looking in the mirror and lifting my arms hoping to see rib bones poking out of the skin again. It feels hysterically awful, hoping for something you know could kill you. It’s almost a cry for help in itself, but, as parents say, it’s just a phase, right? This need for control will go away, right? This stretching of skin so its tight over bones, trying to squeeze all the fat from between my fingers, this glaring at myself in the mirror, this will all pass, won’t it?

Won’t it?

I’d be willing to go there again if it meant getting me back.

Somewhere inside my body is that starving artist, that foreign girl that’s afraid of America and the New York Times’ headlines. There’s a girl without blue eyes or a smile and ruddy cheeks. There’s a girl who wouldn’t touch a piece of bread in a hundred years, or eat a cheeseburger, let alone fries. There’s a girl who would cringe at the idea of a one night stand or taking chances. She would never dream of boys she doesn’t know the names of or of girls at all. She would never think of chatting up a stranger, let alone telling him where she lived. She’s cautious. She’s scared. She’s a silent rebel. She’a too afraid to fall in love or to build home-made bombs. She couldn’t hack a computer or “Borrow” her mothers car for an afternoon. She’s not lonely, but only because she hates people. She uses too many words and not enough action, too much non-action and too few words.

Where’s the quiet girl, the skinny girl, the girl who wrote poetry with such ease and grace that I wonder sometimes, if she’s the real person, and I’m the one that appears when she can’t cope anymore, instead of the other way around?

I want to find her. I want to love her, to be her, to stop this (to start that again) to give up things. There’s a zen in it. Zen and the art of Self love. Zen and the art of Self Mutilation. Zen and the art of Anorexia. There’s an art. A certain mindfulness without any thought. Why enter into sacred meditation? To clear the mind and cleanse the body. What’s there not to meditate about any of the things above.

Maybe it’s not that they have to be thought about. Maybe its that they have to be accepted. Lately it’s been flowing through my head, the reasons for things in the past. I know I can’t change them now, but maybe I can avoid them if I can change myself. If I was more self loving, I would be more self confident. I could love without of consequence. I could live without fearing death. I could learn the difference between what’s skin deep and what’s fatal. I could see that thin is thin enough. Just meditate on that. Think nothing and everything about them. Ignoring them is locking yourself in a prison of ignorance and unhappiness. To accept and meditate on them, well, maybe that gets you something new, maybe that gets you new ideas, new hopes, something you missed before.

When I meet you all again, I want to meet you as people, I want to know you inside and out, rather than names on the screen, trapped on a semi-indie blog that’s offering less and less each day in the mind of support for individualism, and more and more in the way of easy navigation. It bothers me for some reason, all these changes again.

I feel like we know each other as people do, guarded, still lonely though we’ve claimed we’re a family. Maybe that’s why we’re separated. We’re a family. One huge dysfunctional family of brothers and sisters, stuck in lousy situations without parents to talk to about it. I say: Lets leave that at the door. Lets leave our insecurities on the doorstep and bare our teeth against the cold of the cruel internet world. Lets love to write, love to be ourselves. How many times can you do Love? How many times will you do Depression? How much of this is real? Lets leave our insecurities at the front door: all that’s inside is a bunch of open arms and stories to be told. Stories.

Lets stick together with our “family” over real-world support lines, email, phone, Lets be real to each other if that’s what we want. Lets get to know each other outside the indie-net. Lets be people. I’m ready.

I’m ready to tell my secrets. I’m ready to tell the goddamned truth. I’m ready to emerge, to blossom, I’m ready to tell my true stories, I’m ready to break these walls down and explain it all.

I’m ready to be me.