My hand hurts. I wrote this so fast, I'm curious to see what it says. I watched a podcast today on "breaking through your inner glass ceiling." What is your old story; who and what are you blaming for not accessing your own power. I thought it over for a few hours. This is what I've come up with thus far. Maybe, just maybe, my old story needs an edit. Maybe it will help to explain some of the reasons I've led a solitary life
Simply enough, from the outside in, I am alone. From waking, existing, breathing, dreaming, each of these, and everything in between, is done in complete absence of any other. There are those who look in the windows once or twice a month, at best, to verify a shadow, or even a corpse, but they don't announce their presence. I remain voided by the rest of the world. For that solitary reason, I question, who would listen to my tale? For god's sake, what could I possibly have to say? Let's put solitary confinement on paper. Let's map out the synapses of the bipolar for proper investigation. Let us please detail the irrational brain of the occasionally suicidal, often medicated, and always leaving behind; so that we can know, maybe, what NOT to do, how NOT to live. Why would anyone be interested in such an abstract existence? I am barely interested myself sometimes. For days upon days, my voice has reached only the ears of my cat. And typically, he ignores me anyway. But there are layers to this, obviously, right?
My favorite hypothesis, or most readily identifiable one at least, is sabotage. Self-sabotage. I see success, peace, joy, love abound. I'll taste it, sit a place at dinner for them all, partake in too much wine while we all eat, and be sure, that before dessert, I will let each of them know exactly why I am better off with them all.
Success, you rue, I have gone this long without your friendship, why should we try to bond now? You have never supported me in any of my endeavors, or did you forget? What on earth makes you think I'll let you stick around now? You are too abstract, even for the likes of me. Which of us is a bigger fool for believing we could have made a go of it? You're merely a temptress in disguise; and you have mastered the art of the makeover.
Peace, you have only brought me fleeting moments of wonder. You slut, you tease me with your breath on my heart, long enough for me to turn around and see you turn away. You're worse than success, like a gypsy in the wind; there is nothing to grasp ahold of, no way to keep you. Has no one ever told you, no one likes a tease? But to be fair, I haven't made a proper bed for you, have I? So often, I invite you over, just to say there is no room left for another. Depression arrived out of nowhere, on one of his roadtrips; I can't very well turn him away now can I? And just yesterday, mania was here; you know the place is always a mess after she stays. I wouldn't wish for you to see my home like this. So you understand, don't you peace? We will reschedule, I promise. It doesn't make you any less important to me, I swear it.
Joy, you beautiful ray of light. Can't you see how much I've worked lately I need blackout panels to rest when you're around. Sunscreen, a b-12 shot, sunglasses, a myriad of accessories to cope with your visits. As you visit to infrequently to become accustomed to your sight. Frankly, you wear me out. Bringing with you flowers which need watered and weeded, solutions for problems that my subconscious has put on the payroll, uncomfortable anxiety I must either exude or sedate. You have to prepare a person for jolts like that. Otherwise, I'll just be hovering in the dark corner, foaming at the mouth, defensively blocking out the things I just witnessed.
Love, you sit at my table merely as the butt of a joke. On occasion, I've let you stay over, for the sake of my cat really. I have even allowed you to inject yourself into my veins, that I may bleed onto these streets in service for a day or so. But the withdrawal has never been worth the thought of making a room up, just for you. You are more trouble than you are worth! The shaving and showering makes my bills just go up. The primping and planning means I'll get to sleep less. Striving for perfection, from someone who can't even define it? Your standards, love, are much too high for a girl like me. I'm too common. Too plain. Too dark. You wouldn't be able to see where to put your things anyway. I'd hate for you to stub your toe.
So I finish eating dinner alone, having run off the prospects of good company again. I've waned into many moonlights without their side talk as background noise, without them keeping me up too late. Without their pleadings to stay, "Just another day, please, we belong here. If you keep us, we will prove it. We promise, we're worth it." No, I have never heard these willful promises. Thus, I deteriorate each eve, into the dark, under the stars, alone. No one wishes to hear my stories.
Too, society has whispered it's thoughts of me in my ears when I least expect it. Sometimes in a dream, "Tiffany, you're no model, stop expecting someone to love you." And I know it. "Dear, you've destroyed your body, stay inside, so as to not cause trauma to an innocent." And I do it. "Precious, you're too sick. It wouldn't be fair to burden yourself onto someone else, don't you agree? That would make you a parasite. And there are always ways to rid one of a parasite. You don't want that now do you?" And I don't. Society is a vicious, co-dependent manipulator, and I know that too. Yet, it echoes around me. "My lovely girl, isolate yourself from the absurdities of this world. You don't need any new battle scars. Stay in, where it's safe for you my sweet." And I do. And I investigate the scars I have, knowing I am made up mostly of scar tissue now. A new wound, and I wouldn't even bleed. It is just layers of death here. At times, it'll scream, "My great prize, reward yourself for your battle time. Stay home, meditate, have some wine, and reflect on your actions, for success will stop by again. You want to be ready don't you?" And I do So I thank it. I thank it for motivating me to start. Yes, to start only another manifesto that will endure childlike neglect and psychosocial abuse that will earn it a blue awareness ribbon and send it off to foster care with the others.
I've produced many a child who've been taken by the system in my absence. My discipline lacks greatly. My motherly instincts were given to a proper gay man the day they made me. It happens. I hope they gain the right to adopt one of my desolate productions sometime soon. The local homes are being overrun because of me. There have been moments, after all the above has ensued, that society sits me down, as if to be the doting father to my buried seven year old self, and looks me right in the eyes just to lie to me and sternly declare, "You are loved, you are protected, you are one of the gifted ones. We will always show up when you call out, and we will promote your success when you achieve it. But you will not achieve it by going out with boys or partying on the weekends. You must commit yourself to this life, to this gift. Do you promise?" I do. "Okay, we'll be back to check on you soon and see how much you've done." So I work. I work and I pressure myself and I work and I wait, alone. Years have passed. The doting father has absconded, having gotten what he wanted. No one else is here, in your space, just the imprint on my couch from your heavy presence all those moons ago.
On the outside of myself, there is absence. A mere void of a life that could have been a beacon in the night sky for others. But, I've broken off each living branch which ever attempted to find life in me and gave it only a piece of my rot. The decay has become visible. And this is only me, from the outside. The inside, well, the inside, I'm not certain even I have the compass to navigate such depths with no fire to shine through me. I fear it boarders on qualifying as an abyss. No oxygen to keep a fire going; just layers upon layers of rot, of black, of deadened versions of my old self. And I have no compass.