Inked Words, Invisible Girl

Time for an overhaul...

I am sad.

The only thing growing up taught me is that there is no Fairy Tale more unrealistic than Beauty and the Beast. Turns out in real life saviors and gentle souls don't go out looking for enchanted castles to dig through the damage to find the royalty within.

I hate this place This stifling tomb I live in Choking, heavy, crushing desecration Nails on skin like chalkboard Grating nerves like razor blades gone sideways Screeching, shrieking, screaming It hurts. On the surface, skin and nerves, all the way down Past marrow and joints to the depth of it The metaphysical pain It resonates like a gong rung violently in holy silences Shattering everything like glass hurled from shaking hands Shivering across the scape A death knell I plant my feet on the ground There is no connection I am disassociated, anathema Or is or dissociative?  Cast out from self or outcast from you? Don’t focus on it. Keep my nails short so I can’t hurt myself Peel skin from bone until I’m free Carve this face away from me Fingers catch on every jutting bone Collar and hip, shoulder blade and jaw Dig deep into ribs I play myself to sleep Little lullabies on bone and sinew My head is heavy with pain Crushing weight pressing down and pushing out  I’m trapped in the inbetween Aching, stabbing, violent, choking Suffocating in the inbetween Airless passages, it crawls up my throat Lodges right in the middle I think the roots are in my sternum  Twisting, burying, cracking down Through ribs and vertebrae I open my mouth to scream and nothing comes out.  Vines creeping, coming to fill my bones With poisoned fruit and toxic sap Aches like a sucker punch from the night before Throbs like a head slammed into a wall A fight with a demon you didn’t quite win Cause it’s part of you.  Past skin deep, muscle burn, bone ache It’s in the core of you Claws seeped in sorrow hooked deep Panic ripping up your spine, spreading like waves across your flesh I hate this desecrated tomb This defiled alter  Profaned temple.  I live here, in the heart of me. And it is decaying. 

If I've learned anything in my lifetime of hurting and healing, breaking and rebuilding, being destroyed and salvaging all that's left to piece some semblance of yourself back into being, it's this: don't run from it. It hurts, it hurts like hell come home to live in your bones. But don't you run from it. You gain nothing and you only exhaust yourself, burying the pain only gives it more chance to grow roots, gives it a chance to smother you. Don't run from it. Look it in the eye, learn it's name and shape and smell and taste, learn how it was made, and then knowing... unmake. There's no poetry in ragged sobs that steal your breath, no romance in the graveyard of your illnesses, no beauty in your suffering. But there is still poetry on your lips, romance in your body, and you are beauty made manifest. Don't run from it. It hurts. Hurting isn't evil, it isn't the end of the world, it just hurts. But you survived the hurting, the breaking. You'll survive the healing, the rebuilding. You might always hurt. I know I always will. But pain is just part of life. Stand your ground, this is yours to fight for. So don't you run from it. You're made of the stuff of legends, Stardust and Earth, heaven and hell. You stand and you fight. That's what I've learned. Because it'll catch up to you, and it'll be hungry and you'll be tired and it will have sharp teeth and you will have a soft throat. But if you don't run, if you face it, if you do the hard work, you may be haunted and hurting but you'll really be alive. And that's so much more than just struggling to survive.

Let us be the heroes in the stories you write We daughters, we sisters, we golden smile girls, we steel backed women.  Let us save the day, in the stories you write.  Build us up to the brightest lights, the highest heights, give us potential and power and hint at greatness Only to snatch it away, hand victory to the sons.  The suns so bright they always steal the show But we are the moon, the puller of tides, the teller of times, we are powerful too. I read and watch stories and stories where you give us these girls made of the most remarkable things Human flaws and silken power, slender and mighty and you breathe greatness on them But they never lift off because the boys consume your tales and your generosity with words and I'm left wanting, grasping, waiting. Where did that super moon go, that steel and silk girl, made of fire and fury and protection, why is she now holding pom Poms in the background, her clothes so artfully torn, why is she not saving herself, not saying anything? When did she stop being the hero and start being the scenery? I remember her being bigger than that.  I remember her being stronger than that, braver and harder and kinder than that.  Oh, wait.  I wrote that, she wrote that, we write that into the gaping hole you left behind, we bringers of life, in our fan fiction, the only way the girls come back to breathing.  See you only make them interesting long enough to make us love them, then you take away their voice, their power, their choice. You lock them in towers, in cellers, in corsets, in romances. You give us bones and tell us it is a meal.  Tell us it is a hero. And we are so starved we build them into alters.  I haven't mentioned any names, but I don't need to, since you're thinking of someone.  Aren't you?

Don't tell anyone, okay? But some days the sadness is so soft and quiet all I can do is sit with it and wish it would never end because I hate the numbness so much more than the sadness. And some days the sadness is so sharp it cuts through the heart of me and unearths the wellspring of tears I always think is dried up and then I pray for the numbness because anything is better than this. Because have you ever cried so hard it hurts, makes blood vessels rupture in your eyes and bloody your nose? Let my sadness be soft or let it be not at all.

It's a dark fucking place to be when you desperately want something that you know, in your heart of hearts, is romantic drivel and fluff that has no place in your life, in your world, cause nothing ever works out that way, and good doesn't prevail and you're not even the hero in your own fucking story because hell, you can't even figure out the goddamn plot. So you sit in the darkness, with the pain, and the wanting, and you let it eat at your heart until it's raw and aching, and you go frostbite cold at the edges like you'll die or forget what warmth ever felt like. And I'm not even mad at it, or sad about it, I'm just fucking tired of living in a world that loves to tell me I am not enough, never have been, never will be. I am Manic Pixie Dream Girl or I am Psycho Ex Girlfriend or I am mess of symptoms no one wants to make eye contact with. I am not breath caught in your lungs beautiful, I am not burned into your mind brilliant, I am not caught in your sight and stuck in your mind, I do not linger in the air or on your skin or in your mind, I am a dissipating fog. I am not the girl in the story, I am just the one night stand fantasy for the sad and the lonely because I chose to let my pain make me soft, make me kind, I give pieces of myself away to people who want to drain me of my life, I am little sister, best friend, fellow warrior. I am emergency first aid to hemorrhaging heartbreak and devastation. I am 5AM phone call when he's drunk or she's sad, I am last one you invite, the almost forgotten guest, the "oh, that's right... how is she?" girl in the middle of a conversation that doesn't even use my full name. There was a time I thought dreams meant fulfillment and wishes should be made at 11:11, falling stars and eyelashes. There was a time I thought even broken mirrors still could reflect a happy ending, not just be bad luck. There was a time I didn't beg myself not to want, because wanting is wishing is hoping is hurting is open chest vulnerability. That was a long time ago and I am so fucking tired of living in the dark.

Broken ship keeps sailing out of love. That is the character I would be in the stories I love. My trope. That's who I am. Broken down Faulty Falling apart. Patched together, string and wishes. But love keeps me sailing because they told me I must. Cannot rest yet Cannot sink. Dead in the water once, serene. But they fix me up a touch, I keep on flying. Battered and cracked, something beyond repair, I know. But they need me still. So I say I'll stay a while longer. Because someone still needs me I cannot lay me down Sail along with them, merrily, merrily, merrily. Life is but a dream.

In myth and legend there exists a million stories lost to time, a thousand voices silenced and, hundreds of names forgotten. I am such a story. You know, do you not, of ancient wars fought with ancient weapons? Of gods descended to the mortal realm to wade among the dead? Do you know how they cross the borders humans have drawn on the land, how Hades walked side by side with Hel, how Anubis and Izanami would gaze out upon the dead? Do you know Azrael and Erlik would sit together and lament? Do you know that of all their progeny, their scions and their workers, I was alone in my duties to cross the borders of birth and land, I knew each life, each psychopomp, each death god who would attend upon you? The mortal world knew not of me, so they had no name to call me, not knowingly. But I was called Asra, once. In a language that became Arabic, it would mean to travel at night, and that was what I did. I traveled to the night realms, of all gods, of all peoples. Asra, my lords and ladies called me, or Amaya, sometimes they called me in the East for the Night Rain, Noctis in the West. I was a title, more than a name. Born from the battlefield as blood mixed from far flung lands, as night fell and bodies cooled, I sprang forth from the Earth who craved all her children find their way to home and hearth in the night lands. And Hel kissed my cheek, and Hades and Persephone bid me rest offering me honey and pomegranates, Anubis and Osiris gave me welcome, Izanami put flowers in my hair, Azrael gave me feathers from the wings of angels, and all the many gods and demons from every death, sanctuary and hellscape did open their arms to me, and I was much welcome. For I would know all the peoples in all the lands, and I was who would make sure no soul was left forgotten nor lost amid the ether, in the space between. I am the wanderer, the traveler, the wisp. I know the blood that runs in your veins, the history of your life, I know which gods dwell in your hearts, and which were those of your many eras gone family. When you die, you creatures of mix and myth, I am at your side, and I sing down your psychopomps, and I make your way ready to your gods. I walk you to the night realms, I carry you forth to the beyond. I have no shrines, no followers, no worshipers. I am unknown to you. But you, O children of life and such limited time, you are known to me. I am the night journey, the last you’ll ever take. They call me Asra.

I wonder if my jaw aches because I've locked all my burning words into it. There, in the back of my mouth, wedged between teeth and bone and sinew, sewn into the muscle, is all the fire I filled my words with. There was a time I didn't hesitate to say the things I needed to say, defending rights trampled upon, shedding light on realities people turned away from. Biting words and hard facts, nightmarish personal truths, unlock my jaw and let the words pour through shaking fingertips, fall past trembling lips. It always brought adrenaline and anxiety, so much fear to shout over the hate, the ignorance, the petty stubbornness, to have to hear the awful things they would do, that they think, that they refuse to see. But now my jaw is locked tight, clenched teeth grind the fire into ashes on my tongue, my throat is clogged with words I should say, my chest is heavy with guilt. I am so tired. I think if I were to burn now, the fire would eat the marrow of my bones and hollow out the very last of me. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.... I should be a better advocate, a better wordsmith forging weapons and armor with my paltry skill, I should be burning down archaic structures with my fire and fury. But I am gutted and guttering out. I burned too hot, now I flinch from the fire.

Once upon a time, I thought if I let people eat my heart straight from my chest I could undo all the thoughtless harm I had done in my youth, I thought if I forgave and forgave that I too would some day be worthy of forgiveness, I thought if they drained my life I could sustain them, heal them, fix them, I thought, I thought, I thought. I thought wrong. My momma taught me, “do no harm. But take no shit. Do what you gotta do, baby girl, even if it makes them bleed.” My papa taught me, “kill ‘em with kindness…. it’ll drive ‘em nuts. When you have to act, don’t do it in public.” My ultimate conclusion was, so many years later, I’ll be kind until you give me a reason not to be, or hurt those I love. Then I’ll tear your throat out with my teeth and smile sweetly through your blood raining down my face. I am not a creature of infinite patience, if you are unfortunate enough to find the end of it, on your head be the consequences. See, I am not actually good, I don’t think, but then I’m not really sure what good is cause I can see it in everyone else, but it never seems to be reflected back at me, so I know I’m not good. And I never claimed to be kind, never said I am a nice person, don’t think I’ve got the right, I’ve left broken hearts, cruel words, lies and scars behind me, no, I am not nice. But I am loyal, and I can be fierce, protect my own, my Pack, my clan, my coven, with the only thing I have, myself, my body, I wouldn’t call it selfless, see I just don’t have anything else to lay on the line but me, and I do love. Love. I love in ways that have no words, I love in primordial waters simmering new life like a potion, I love like black magic used to end and begin again, I love in shades of fire and flame, from nurturing hearthstone to destructive volcanic burning, in tides and currents, rivers and oceans. Love like ancient trees and tender new buds yet to bloom. I love with the power of new stars being born and old galaxies crumbling into black stars. See, I love with every single atom of my being, I have no dam for the waters, no control for the volume, just an open chest vulnerability, all aching ribs and red, raw heart. Because, you see, I love the only way I know how. I love like I live, each moment, singular, detached, endless and ending even as it starts. I love like I’m saying goodbye. I’m always saying goodbye.

This desecrated altar, this body of mine. I trace the scars on my skin, self-inflicted, accident prone, bad luck, ill health. A lattice work of a hard life, too long in darkness. Broken pillars, crumbling walls, faded pigments that hint at what may have once been beautiful. This defiled body, this temple of mine. What has not been stolen, what has not been tainted? Illness, ill used, ill mind, soul cracked and corrupted by too many cruelties inflicted. Try as I may, I see no redemption to be had, no salvation. Just a lifetime of struggle and suffering until one day I lay down to rise no more. This profaned life, my life. My body has been a battleground, my mind is a war zone, my heart has been a minefield. My soul, my soul, my soul has been sacrificed. There is no beauty to be found here, no longer, perhaps not ever. I cannot recall who I might have been had the world been a little kinder. But I know who I am now. Debased and devastated, I have nothing left to offer, nothing of value. A ruin, a hollowed out relic, there is nothing sacrosanct anymore. I haunt this shrine as though it were my tomb, waiting for the quiet of a true death.

You don’t know me, I promise you. Perhaps you know the color of my eyes, or my favorite books. Maybe you know how I take my coffee, who my first kiss was, or where I’d go when I want to be alone. It could be you even know my diagnostic list, and some of what that means. But you don’t know me. They say in therapy that I’m self-aware, capable now of seeing symptoms for what they are. Sometimes they think it’s progress. Most of the time it’s a paralysis that hinders all healing. It also means I don’t say what’s on my mind. You see, what you don’t know is what I say to myself in the hours of my solitude. You cannot name, nor even see, the demons and ghosts that live in my periphery, sliding like shadows in my eyes to torment my mind. Nor could I tell you what I see when I look into the mirror. The language fails me, I know not the words. Heavy guilt like crushing gravity, weighing me down. Self-loathing like toxic blood, coursing through my veins. Paranoia, anxiety, hypervigilance, nightmares, depression, insomnia, dissociation, triggers, flashbacks, guilt, guilt, guilt, oh God the guilt. Can’t focus, sorry, ADHD. Dysphoria of the body, disconnecting me from what I am, almost no one knows at 18 I got diagnosed with disordered eating that she wanted to label as atypical anorexia. Still have a hard time with food. And my body. They don’t line up. Can’t get too close to people cause of BPD, can’t get too comfortable that’s my PTSD, oh hey that’s my highly drug resistant Major Depressive Disorder, my generalized anxiety, panic disorder, social anxiety, and insomnia. I don’t talk about the dissociative disorders cause people get really judgey, and I always love it when people say my ADHD is made up. But I hide a lot of it pretty well. Smile a lot. Keep the scars covered, have a good meal once and awhile, learn to scream only internally, keep the face calm, smile, smile, smile so they can’t see the chaos. Gotta be extra careful, this unit is faulty. Can’t regulate my systems, got a bleeding disorder, hyperhidrosis, hyper extended, hypermobile joints, this immune system is so faulty it only knows friendly fire, got it locked in on autoimmune. Heart murmurs, lungs don’t work quite right, and oh my God the pain. But I smile, laugh, and tell self-deprecating jokes. Learned really early, gotta put on a mask, take on a role, gotta act through it, breathe through it, learn what you don’t deserve. Like I said. You probably don’t know me.