Sixteen.
“Let August be August”, they said. I think I’ve read that line 10 times today. I feel nauseated at the thought. It was August 2022 a few months ago, what do you mean? I have spent most of my year in a heap of pain, disassociation and soggy (silk) pillows.
This feels so familiar. I feel like I am 16 years old again.
Picture this. My window is open. Medicine by Daughter is playing. The crisp, sharp air tickles my toes. Not the gentle, benevolent kind, but the kind that tugs and stings, just a little too much. The sharp reminder of the lack of warmth I feel (this is not about temperatures).
The blanket holds me close, but it is somehow not enough to shield me from Winter’s grip. I have been yearning for protection in this little concrete box for as long as I can remember. I’ve done it up, as much as I can. I feel fleeting waves of belonging. However, they don’t stay long. Oh! But I have collected many, many books. You’d love them. Who am I talking to? Who am I talking to…
These are the books I wish you’d have read. I wish I could have held you, all the nights you spent in tears over really stupid boys. The tears you cried for your body. The tears you cried from the abandonment felt, day in and day out. The pain you felt when you lost your Opi. Joel was beside you. The start of the numbing. The false sense of security. The pain you felt when you were covertly abused, and could not understand why or how you were never enough, even though you excelled in pretty much everything you touched. By the way, you were always fucking good enough.
I wish I could have loved you in the way you deserve(d). I love you now. I love you so very much. I am so sorry it took so long.
I have sat inside the perimeters of these (same) four walls for years. Years and years. And years. I escaped them for 8 out of 26. How did I get here, Celine?
(How did I get back here? ?)
I spent tonight down memory lane, my heart feeling symbolism masked as love.
I am working on sewing myself a new world infinitesimally but oh so consistently. One could compare the polarity of my feelings of fear and power, to the tide pull-back before a tsunami. The calm before the storm. Or perhaps, Winter preceding Spring (this is my favourite one). The certainty of the before. The certainty of step 1. The certainty of time passing. Full stop in bold.
Softly, slowly, I say. There is pure devotion (synonymous with pain) in my blue-green eyes. There is love in my mouth— sticky, wet, dripping (I lick my fingers); tastes like rose jam. There is nurture, woven into my hair with castor oil and pistachio, salted caramel and vanilla. I spy a shedding of ssskin. A Kundalini Awakening (the real one, this time). I feel it in my root, aching. The locking of the mula bandha. It is time, Celine.
I honour my life. I honour my healing. I honour my flesh. I honour my bones. I honour my heart. I honour my brain. I honour my eyes. I will sew the seeds needed to grow leafy and tall.
I choose me, unwaveringly. Forever.
