I met myself for the first time today.
Between cups of coffee and glasses of wine. Between half smoked cigarettes and half naked dances in a living room. Between filling a tub just to feel the water turn cold. Between staring unseeing in a mirror, and painting on the floor.
I met a woman who never got to just be a girl. A woman who tries to think carefully and act reasonably. A woman whose window of innocence closed before it could blossom into self security. Told to be strong, be giving and empathetic. Groomed to be a caretaker, but never shown how to care for herself. She’s intelligent, but she hides it beneath ‘I don’t know’ and ‘I could be wrong.’
She’s kind but treated like she’s cruel. She’s beautiful but only feels it when men see her naked.
This woman (this shell of one, really) sat me down and told me about her heart.
How it’s broken and bruised from being treated like an ideal, but never an individual. Broken from the father whose dreams were more important than her well-being. The father who stole from her, and beat her mother. The father who taught her that male ambition was more fulfilling than her love. Bruised from the men who sized her up but were too weak to carry her. The men who only wanted her when she was quiet and without personality.
She told me that she cries more from wanting to give love than not being loved. That she can’t help but wonder why everyone’s ego is more important than her healing. But lately, she said, she doesn’t cry much anymore. Because crying at this point is insane when you’re crying over something that has happened more than once.
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She told me about her mind, about its fluidity and resilience. How quickly her thoughts fly, the patterns she sees and conclusions she draws. How safe she feels when resorting to logic to make sense of how her heart aches. How many thoughts she refrains and retrains in an effort to appear easy and inviting. She told me how much she loves to read, but lately she’s distracted by the words she’d rather speak. Her mind is a castle, she said. A castle with rooms built from projected fears and patterned rejection. And she’s afraid of those rooms. Afraid if she continues to wander them, she’ll lose respect for those her heart once loved.
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Then she told me about her soul. A garden surrounding a flowing fountain. Ground covered in green moss, with flowers and ivy trickling up and down the fencing. She used to look into that fountain and see a reflection of who she was never allowed to be: joyful, strong, truthful. A reflection of what she never thought she could be: loved, worth coming back for. That security, that sense of self that ran deeper than her interactions, it allowed her to give freely, to pour herself out for others. But lately, she said, the fountain is dry. It’s dry, and filled with the rocks and dirt people have thrown in when they stop there. They look and they drink before stomping on the grass and tearing the petals. “My fountain is empty and I’ve lost myself,” she said, “because I don’t know who I am if I can’t give.”
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She told me all of this between smiles and tears. Between painting and cooking dinner. Between strangers’ sheets and nights alone. I sat and stared, watching and listening to this woman. This woman who is so incredibly stable, and so planted but has been made to feel like she has no roots. This woman who has endured physical and emotional abuse and still has a desire to love and care for others. And I wanted to cry, thinking of all the people who never came back for her. The people who never could look past themselves to help her heal. But those tears slowly turned into a small smile. Because all that healing, all that growth, she did that. She did that on her own, with her own mind, heart and soul.
And so I told her, “No. No, that’s not all you are. You’re not just a broken heart, a guarded mind, or an emptied soul. You are the woman who has the joy of a child. The woman who gets on her knees at 3am and prays for her enemies. You’re the woman who chooses to be kind at the risk of being used. Chooses to be vulnerable at the risk of being broken. Your soul may not feel like a thriving garden, but it most certainly is not a wasteland. And nothing will convince me that your beauty will ever be overshadowed by your defeat. So continue to feel, process and give. And if anything, stop letting the people you carry on your shoulders make you feel weak.”
jacobvanloon
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baratheonpilled
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izzy806
turnnoffyourmind
