I’m wearing a cream chiffon dress.
I look lovely.
Should I dart in front of that truck?
My tanned skin glistens in the sun, screaming Southern California health.
The windows were open on our 15th floor lunchroom.
I averted my eyes, blocking the windows out, the LA sunshine.
Pretending everything was okay, eating my lunch.
I run to catch the bus to pick up my daughters and I remember.
I can’t leave.
I can’t leave them.
This conversation, and many iterations, airbrushed versions, quiet cries, fake smiles, masked feelings, shuffling raw sewage of hurt dripping away to make it blend. Blending. Existing, surviving, smiling, living.
Walking through life wanting to not only survive but to find MEANING.
So many times, so many days. I wanted to stop it. Just stop.
And it was always them that kept me present. That saved me from myself, from my brain that was hurting from the frantic energy buzzing inside, from the inability to neatly file shit away in a folder. No folder could hold it.
Like The Nightmare Before Christmas. Sewn together, coping. Hoping to hide the seams that were bursting, screams pushing outward to free the energy that I have for life.
When you want so much but you are given a 1 square meter space to fit into. The space given only gets smaller as time progresses. People tune out. They sign off on your failure.
Not knowing what is inside.
Bubbling out. Leavening. Like rising bread.
I take a bite and I enjoy the taste. So I keep kneading and baking.
I hate baking.
It makes me uncomfortable.
But I keep pushing.
And today, now.
I am a balloon filled with so many voices, so many stories, so many paths.
And I am asked, “Who Are You?”
Expected to answer in 2 sentences.
And I always take longer and I fight the feeling that I am taking up too much space.
I want to shrink onto myself.
Because when I let it out, when I roar,
it fucking hurts.
And when I hear that roar from others,
that low growl before the end
it fucking hurts.
Why does it have to hurt so much for so many?
I am okay. I am fine.
I am even.
I can say this with honesty now.
I can say this with confidence.
In the face of the questioning looks, of the wonder, of the hostile unwelcomes.
This place can be so unwelcoming.
Almost a joke.
How cold, how faceless, how irritatingly alike so many people choose to be.
See me please.
Because I strive to see you.
Because how hard is it?
To See with Kind Eyes?