I wasn't well-behaved because I was mature for my age. It was because I was a traumatized child, prone to outbursts, intense emotional dysregulation, and selective mutism. Children are not meant to be so silent they disintegrate into the walls. I WAS TRAUMATIZED. #pod#poem#acrostic#trauma#family@mirakee@writersnetwork@writersbay
"The woman set out searching for the Fountain of Youth. She swam through dazzling lagoons, discovered dozens of ancient cave pools, natural and glimmering with eternal allure; but she could never fully enjoy her journeys, never beheld the water for what it was, as it could not help her stop the clock and she remained aged, aggrieved and low-spirited, no younger when she would reemerge. She was old and shriveled by the time she never found it, her whole life spent believing that the young body is true beauty, and once it is gone, all happiness goes too- she never learned that true beauty is ageless and evolving, beyond the fleeting illusion of youth, and there are things that can only be seen through the poise and wonderment of older eyes. The woman died an old, regretful lady- she wasted so much time chasing down her past, she didn't even notice as the present passed her by. She was so focused on finding that one special 'cure', that magnificent spring of holy water that would fix her; she never realized that aging is not a defect to be fixed, not a threat to be reversed- but rather an era to be waded into with compassion and grace, more love and prudence than you knew in your younger heart.
"I cannot look at my childhood photos. I see them and feel nothing. I never feel like I was the little girl in each picture, I can never remember if the smiles were genuine or forced for the camera- a complete disconnect between what I see and what I feel in response to it.
I feel nothing- or at least, I felt nothing at first.
But the nothingness, the mental blankness and gaps have been a bit stirred, ushering the apathy to shift into AVERSION.
Pick a photo, any photo, and I will sidestep it just the same. I think I was once that little girl, though I can't help but feel as if I didn't live through these moments, like they're just not mine to connect to.
Childhood memories, I crave them yet I loathe them- desperate, but dreading the thought of remembering.
All these photographs, scrapbooks full of them, they go through me like my eyes are black holes, my past an experience I somehow didn't live through- this fractured life I don't recognize, but maybe I could, if I looked... So why am I so afraid to look? What is it my body thinks it will find within the younger versions of itself?
What are the painful realities these little girls were hiding?
"Faith in God is a gradually shaken thing- it is not something shattered all at once, but slowly penetrated- a billion tiny cracks in glass and whiplashes in perspective, until it collapses underneath the uneven weight and fragile foundations of itself.
It happened to me after a series of wicked events- a litany of strange, proscribed questions nobody knew how to answer- numerous attempts to fit in to the congregation I grew up with, despite feeling as though I needed to force an image of somebody I was not to be accepted; I was always a fussy child, stubborn. I could never so eagerly follow what I did not feel in my heart, I contested too much to be told what to think- saw the badness of the world, all its faintest splinters, already not easily swayed by their stories; a wrathful child wondering why God would never answer back, an alienated little girl who would cry and scream, besieged by such hellish emotions, too young too understand such fire- and sleep amongst the ash longing to articulate her confusion to someone, anyone who would listen- but no one listened, no one seemed to notice- as any child who feels too much has experienced, eventually, nobody knew what to do with me- nothing they could say satisfied me, still leaving me feeling empty and unseen. Something must have been wrong with me, for the Holy Spirit seemed to care for me least of all.
Why did God create me this way, if this is not the way I was supposed to be?
Too many queries left lingering after masses, too much doubt after the eucharist was consumed, too much shame at being unable to change for them and chant with them like they wanted me to; so, one day, I decided to stop.
I left the church when I turned thirteen- that was the age when they made you decide in a ritual called Confirmation; it required an oath of commitment to beliefs I did not hold, a willingness to come-of-age in a place I did not feel I should be; it was never anybody's fault, just happened to be who I became was incompatible and they couldn't manage to ensnare me fully- but Part of Me still wishes we could be there now, with the loving community that wanted to grow us- the one we felt alienated from, the one we never realized didn't really love anyone, unless you behaved and thought like them.
To this day, my heart is made of the dazzling stained glass from my childhood church; the color, life and vibrancy from every breed of holy space holds a special kind of meaning for me; my spirituality is less organized now, I worship God in different ways and that is okay, it's all a part of the game- For this God, this omnipotent force we have been mythologizing for millennia- it is in actuality, unlike anything we as humans have the capacity to imagine- but we try our best with a thousand different descriptions of little men, just like us; we are our only scope of reference, hardwired somehow for faith in things we cannot see, beings that will never visit us- I hold a different God close to my heart, my own philosophy for faith, equal parts excited and unnerved at the idea that I could be wrong.
My God is not the same as yours, and neither of us can ever be correct. These are just the games He likes to play with us; do you not think He still loves all those with alternative ways of worship?
~~~~ I don't care much for religion, but I believe everyone is entitled to their own spiritual journey. Just because my relationship with it is different from yours, that doesn't mean I will end up in Hell for not doing it "perfectly" enough, aka, within an organized ideology. My own father expects me not to be with him in Heaven when he dies, and I just have to be like... Alright man... I guess we'll see... #pod#poem#religion#church#spirituality#life#love#thoughts@mirakee@writersnetwork@writersbay
"I haven't had the courage to look into the mirror lately- I'm always met with some warped and darker variant of myself, occasionally graced with moments of clarity where I see the real me- and she is worse than any emaciated wretch I could twist up in my head.
The other week I stood and looked at myself, traced the worry lines on my forehead and the smile lines along my nose and mouth, pinching at sickly pale skin and pulling at dark bags underneath weary eyes, staring back into the dull abyss that I am. I turned to leave when I heard somebody speaking; the girl inside the mirror stared straight back at me- she told me she WAS me, the part of me that holds on to every sight I couldn't bear to keep. We were two eras trapped between a single pane of glass. She told me she was tired of being ignored, and only seeing my pathetic face. There are regions of this world she is dying to see, adventures she is desperate to embark on, but she is stuck in a universe of suffering, our own version of Hell she had crafted to shelter herself while she watched as I went on with life- or, as she puts it, squandered my life. She is tired of being passive. Taking time, growing stronger without me. When I returned to her mirror last night, she tricked me and pulled me inside.