The truth is that I am scared, and did you ever notice how scared and scarred are so close in spelling. The truth is that I am scarred too, and right now I can feel the tightness of my skin as I morph into this new life. I am afraid that I will not be wanted, that I will not be loved, that I will be thrown away, that I will be left for another version of me, or a version of someone else. It is not as though it occupies every moment of my thoughts, but just now, as I am giving birth to this baby I am realizing that moment when I cannot stretch anymore is upon me, and I am no longer able to bear the pull just now. I cover my face and say I am overwhelmed. You always are. No, I say, that just isn’t true. But my mind says, yeah you stupid ass, you always are. See that is what happens when I am stressed, I feel small and ugly, stupid and un confident and angry.
I want to not be this way, but I am. I claw through the hard baked dirt of my consciousness, not softened by meditation or walking, my fingers bleed. I push myself away before I am pushed away. I withdraw to cope with these feelings. I am taking note of what I am feeling, and that is the first step. I am in pre school again. I have not yet learned my abc’s.
Even so I stand back and observe the changes I have made, the clarity is coming bit by bit, and he admits to me as I inhale the masculine smell of his warm bare chest, his muscled arms wrapped around me, that his life is better with me in it, even though I have asked him to make so many sacrifices on my behalf. He says, wow this room looks bigger as I remove and reorganize, bit by bit the years of things.
We all use things to ease the pain of loneliness I say. Really? he asks, I don’t. We all do, that is what it means to consume, that is why they play depressing music in the stores, that is how they get you to buy stuff, by telling you your life will improve if you buy this product or that one. Myself, I throw away things I thought I would own forever, I sell things that I never thought I could bear to part with. I silence my own voice for weeks on end to get the results I want. I look around this single room, filled now with my most cherished things, what more am I willing to part with. Hands on my hips, maybe just a little bit more, maybe just a little bit more. I am trying to sooth a case of colic, I rock myself, I hold myself, I go for days without sleep. My undeveloped muscles leave me crying out for help when I cannot move my limbs, I am asleep. Meanwhile back at the ranch.
I feel so, troubled. And I just don’t want to feel these things any more.
I know that pushing them away will not help. But I find myself doing it anyway, because it is just too much.
I want to just delete this and not publish it at all.
Its like a mental illness.
I am disgusted with myself.
This is a mortification.