Just Speak

The following post is the result of ten minutes of typing.  This is a free write with no edits (beyond spelling corrections from misplaced fingers while rapidly typing) and no pauses -- just ten minutes directly from my mind.  This is not normally something that I would share here.  Despite sharing very personal stories about mental illness, rape, attempted suicide, and the like, this becomes even more personal because it exposes someone other than my own self.  I am always cautious to do so, and this piece probably belongs in a private journal rather than as a blog post, but I really want to get back into the practice of writing.  This art has been absent from my life too long, as is evident through my rare, intermittent postings here.  The voice lends us power when we feel weak and worthless, and hence I share.  I share not only to gain back my personal strength and power, but in the greater hope that some of that power can be shared and gained by readers.  I'm sure I'm not the only one who hears that wicked, self-loathing voice of doubt and shame and it's important to share our struggles. We need to speak up. Please speak up. 

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I thought it was all over between us because when I cried, you just sat there … numb.  Tears gushing forth from my eyes like a dam breaking, rolling on tumultuous waves, ever unceasing and frightfully dangerous.  What smarted the most is that I wasn’t ready and I didn’t want this to end; you were still my best friend.  Don’t you know that I need to be in control, and so it hurts like hell when I can’t make you love me? I can’t illicit the response I want, and I don’t know what to try because every fucking thing seems to fail.  Should I put on a little more lip gloss? What if I try thick eyeliner and smoky eyes? Can I tempt you then? Will you be my willing victim? Do I need to lose ten more pounds? Or twenty? Or go back to skin and bones so you feel that you’re in control because you can lift me and toss me around like a light paper sack?  You can fold me up and tuck me in the back of an untidy kitchen drawer until you have some need for me. Would you like that?  To keep me out of the way until I’m convenient for you; I won’t be making unsightly messes all of the god-damn time, mucking up the image of this perfect little family.  Should I just keep my big mouth shut? Say only please and thank you, and obediently shake hands?  Should I swallow ten more pills? Or twenty? Erase this stain on the otherwise lovely little canvas you effortlessly painted.   It’s all effortless – not easy – but effortless because you’re too tired to try anymore. No effort. None.  My heart is breaking and you just sit there … numb.  You don’t try to fix it, to bandage it, to heal it.  Please put on a fucking dressing; strap, compress, and bind me if need be.  Do anything but sit there silent. 

This is not a comfortable silence.  Every second that you keep your mouth shut is like another cut of the knife.  Your abrasive blade shines and casts wicked shadows, speaking for you though your tongue is still mute. Why won’t you whisper even one word? What kind of cold, uncaring soul can just sit there and not offer a hand or one single word of condolence?  You must have no feeling for me because you just sit there … numb.  In your silence, I am berating myself with those words unspoken.  No apologies and no admissions so I speak for you and that wicked voice says, “I don’t love you anymore.  You’re an inconvenience.  You’re worthless. Worthless bitch.  Fat, worthless bitch.  Fat, obnoxious, worthless bitch.  Fat, obnoxious, demanding, worthless bitch.  Fat, obnoxious, demanding, untalented, worthless bitch.  Fat, obnoxious, demanding, untalented, wasteful, worthless bitch.  Worthless. Worthless. Worthless.  Worthless.  You’re not worth fighting for.  Not worth fighting for.”  I have told you this too.  In the silence, that is what I hear.  You know this.  You know this, and yet you do not deny it.  Why is there no counter to my self-hatred?  The lack of a counter is a confirmation.  Your silence is acquiescence.  Your silence says you have given up on us because I am trying, scratching, clawing, screaming, crawling, and you just sit there … numb. 

What if I buy a push up bra?  If I put my cleavage right under your nose, make your eyes rest upon my ample breasts, will you want me then?  Will you touch me, kiss me, show some tenderness?  It hurts to not be desired.  It hurts to not be in control.  It hurts to be screaming and kicking for your fucking attention and have you just sit there … numb.  Don’t you see how much I love you?  Don’t you see how much I need you?  Don’t you see how much I want you?  I just want to be wanted too.  I need that.  Without that, I hear those forsaken, biting voices whose evil, piercing whispers are like tattoos upon my skin, marks upon my brow, scars upon my wrist.  Worthless. Worthless. Worthless. Bitch. Inked on me in some fancy script.  You see the words and don’t try to scrub them off.  Why won’t you help me come clean?  Why do you let me fester amongst such putrid filth?  I just want to be your good girl; I just want you to love me.  I need you to love me because if even you can’t find some love for me, what’s the hope for me?  You were the rock; you were my constant support.  You were the one I could always trust. The one I could always turn to, and now you just sit there … numb. 

So, is this over?  Is it even me?  Should I believe the wicked words that repeat on that obnoxious internal soundtrack?  Or do you hear those words too and that’s why?  Fuck up. Fuck up. Fuck up. Failure.  You have no love to offer me because you have no love for yourself.  Fuck up. Fuck up. Failure.  That’s why you have become so numb.  Don’t believe them.  Let’s promise each other this: If you don’t believe them, I won’t believe them either.  Let’s learn to love ourselves and one another again because I need your love.  I need you – all of you – in my life.  Please speak.  Just speak. Speak to me tonight.





My New Mantra

I was lying in my bed, feeling lazy and lethargic when my husband began prodding me to rise and greet the day, inquiring about my lack of ambition.  

“What’s wrong, Angela?” he asked as he sat himself down on the edge of the bed, shoving disheveled sheets out of the way in the process.

When I simply shrugged my shoulders, he maintained his inquisition by running through a series of possible explanations for my prolonged state of repose.  “Do you have stomach cramps again? Is your colitis acting up?” he probed.   “Does your back hurt? Are you anxious? Are you feeling depressed? What can I do?” 

I wasn’t anxious or depressed until that moment when he started barraging me with a series of questions.  I felt like a criminal under interrogation.

His interrogation tactics succeeded as I succumbed to his inquiry and admitted to recent feelings of worthlessness and doubt. I confessed to lingering disappointment and depression about my job loss the prior year.  I explained that I felt I wasn’t really contributing to society in a positive and productive way void of my full time teaching position.  I also acknowledged that new ambitions were developing in my soul.

“Maybe I am supposed to write now,” I said.  He looked at me a bit hesitantly.  I lost my job last year, and the truth is I’m still grieving this loss.  Another truth, however, is that I believe the cliché that things happen for a reason.  Right now, I wanted to believe that reason was my writing.

After all, hadn’t I been seeing signs everywhere?  I kept on seeing images and postings declaring platitudes akin to “When God closes a door, stop banging on it and trust that whatever is behind it is not for you.”  Regrettably, the prevalence of such declarations was probably not a sign of my destiny, and rather an indication I had been spending too much fucking time on Pinterest again.  Regardless, it was happier and more hopeful to believe, however deceived I might be.

My current worry was that I was also unwillingly deceived about my ability to write.  Maybe I didn’t have a talent.  Maybe I didn’t have a way with words.  Maybe I would never write anything more than an obscure little blog that I had dreadfully neglected over the past few months.  

“I don’t know,” I mumbled, “I mean, I want to write and sometimes I truly believe that’s what I am destined to do, but other times I fully doubt my ability.  I just fuck things up.”

“Angela, you do not.  You are a good writer.  Your blog is good,” he offered as means of encouragement.

This failed to appease my current doubt.  Good? Good?  I was good?  I didn’t want my husband, who ought to be my biggest supporter, to describe my work as merely “good.”  I wanted him to describe my writing as superior or stellar – not good.  His word choice was the equivalent of a coach patting the back of the worst fucking kid on the team with an “atta’ boy – nice effort.”  That wasn’t what I wanted; I wanted him to prompt me to write, prevail, and publish.

I gulped down more self-doubt with his words, and then whined, “Good? I’m just good?  I wish you believed in me more than that!”

 “I do believe in you.  You are better than good.  You’re more than adequate.”

More than adequate? More than adequate?  What the fuck kind of pep talk is that? 

 

 

As I fumed over his further word choice, a memory of an old SNL sketch flashed through my mind.  Rather than announcing though, “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me,” I then imagined myself seated stoically in front of a mirror proclaiming, “I’m okay. I’m good. I’m more than adequate.” 

This would most assuredly become my new mantra.  I knew that the next time I just didn’t want to get out of bed on a Saturday morning, I need only assure myself that I am “more than adequate.”  I would repeat “I’m okay.  I’m good.  I’m more than adequate. I’m okay.  I’m good.  I’m more than adequate” until I believed those ultra-affirming words and awoke ready to embrace the day, and whatever challenge lay in my way. 

I’m okay. I’m good. I’m more than adequate.