I’ve mentioned I’m writing a memoir before a couple times. I’m going to share pieces of it that I write that I feel are worth sharing. I may record them later on so you guys can see how I intend for them to read aloud, as it may differ greatly from the way you read it and from the way the meanings are interpreted.
Nevertheless, it’s an extremely raw piece of writing and has to do with my mental illness, as well as everything I’ve experienced as a person.
It is also unedited (hence “raw”).
Recently, I’ve been wondering what it means to be human.
What am I? Who am I? How am I? Why am I?
Most importantly, I wonder what I’m capable of. Am I capable of love? Am I capable of harm? Am I
capable of dealing with everything all on my own?
However, I feel different from the other humans around me — indifferent, even. I’m different from them, but I cannot explain how I’m different, because I don’t look any different. Bare and raw, I’m different; my skin exposed, I am different. Bruises from the past continue to heal, and my self-inflicted scars continue to darken. The latter may stay a lifetime. Food and eating isn’t any different; I starve myself as they’re eating snacks shamelessly, yet still counting the calories they indulge in and fearing how much it will expand their abdomens and hips. I might as well sit there, continuing to watch, because I’m not noticed anyway — my unordinary behavior is noticed, realized, and dissected, but the actual person, persona and personality I am on the inside is not what is seen when I am displayed, bare and raw, apparently welcoming any feedback and notices of their disapproval. I am always doing something wrong whether I’m doing anything at all.
I feel as though I might as well kneel before them and beg for them to love me — to accept me — as if I am their peasant. I do not fit in, and it is obvious; to anyone new who comes to the table, I am the outsider. I am dwelling and wallowing in my pain and my fears, and I am different — the pink elephant in the room, sitting in the corner.
Everyone is growing, aging, moving; time is moving forward, never pausing, and I am the same. I am the alien that sees things differently and is accepting and understanding of others who are different, thus I am frowned upon, and they all itch for immigration to take me away.
I’m sitting, and I’m existing, but I’m also dying, because I am different.
I am unacceptable to society, and I am a stranger.
I am the only mouse in a world of lions, and no lion is genuinely my friend, yet I dream of transforming into a beautiful butterfly.
I am me, but I am not tolerable.
I am on the outside, bitter toward everyone who is intolerant and ignorant toward me, yet I love them anyway, because I’m told I’m supposed to — I’m told I have to.
What is family, if there is no love? Blood doesn’t make a family, and prejudice and judgment doesn’t make love happen; everything is so backwards, and I’m bending forwards as I try to solve the equation. I’m judged with or without evidence, guilty for crimes I may or may not have committed. I’m wallowing and dwelling in my feelings, thoughts and fears because of flashbacks, nightmares — all the memories of my previous years haunt me in my sleep and in my wake, and I am alone.
The people I am supposed to be able to count on, the people who are supposed to support me, the people who are supposed to have my back, the people who are not supposed to screw me over — my dysfunctional family is made up of Christian hypocrites, who find other’s worth using prejudice, intolerance and ignorance. It’s ridiculous, because they see children on the news whose parents abused them, and they hurt for them, saying, “Those kids will be ruined forever.” Yet, they turn around and look at me, and I’m told to pick myself up and “move on” — “the past is in the past, and this is the present. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
Doesn’t it matter? Doesn’t the past matter?
My past determines what I do and how I feel every single day. My past is what has made me who I am today — it has drawn me onto a blank slate and painted me in a way that is so similar to everyone around me, yet so different to those who should accept me. I’m different, abstract — a story to be told — but I cannot be me, because I am taboo.
I am lost, weak, broken, but I’m expected to be found, strong, connected.
I have to pick myself up and put myself together in order to be accepted by those who are uncomfortable talking about things that are everyday to me — things that are real, broad, narrow, raw, bare, pallid, true, heartfelt, heartbreaking.
They speak of “love”, and I’m not sure I understand that, because I grew up in an atmosphere where love is hate, and hate is love, and I’m not sure if I’m capable of love in its rawest form. What is love in its rawest form? Does genuine love even exist? I’m not a fan of clichés, but I don’t know if love exists — I don’t know if I believe in it — because I’m not sure of what it is. I know what I feel when I am hurting, and whilst it hurts so bad, it’s the easiest feeling to feel; the feeling of hurt and I are well-acquainted, and it’s comfortable. Knowing the feeling of hurt is just around the corner for me is comforting, because at least it isn’t anything new — at least I’ve not gotten my hopes up.
Yet, I’m on my knees again, begging for forgiveness of whatever I’ve done wrong yet again; I want to meet happiness, no matter how foreign and dangerous is it. Happiness, the ever-longing sensation so many desire, is the most dangerous feeling in the world. Happiness kills and taints and sours and haunts and harms — it victimizes the hurt and rewards the rich, who feed off the sorrows of others — the victims — and uses its newfound power to recollect itself and prepare the cycle all over again. It feeds on those who are weaker and punishes the victims who feel strong enough to escape its hold. Happiness is the villain I want to become friends with, because I want to keep my enemy so close to my heart it becomes weaker than I.
I want happiness to fear for its life — I want happiness to fear me.
© Copyright 2014, Liz Lawson.
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