A love letter
Seeming as though with more time in the world I find myself infested with my own thoughts. Confused by the intricacies of anxiety. I cannot fathom how I got here. To this point in time without having some massive heart attack brought on by stress and grief. But here I am. Here I stand. Most days I roll out from underneath the covers to find myself disappointed in another day arriving. Still struck by grief of being this individual with this existence. Tired not in a "kind of stressed but I'll grab a coffee" sort of way. Rather in the sense that every moment of woken consciousness my mind writhes with contention while a constraint strain of bodily distress never leaves. The room never quite standing still for focus. Fatal thoughts bind my mind. One could wonder where this sort of hellish yet quite common experience could have appeared from. Some otherworldy dimension like a spirit latching onto it's victim from the next life? Or is it as bland and plain as the deafening self loathing that is a chemical imbalance in the brain that could cause such a day to day aggression to one's own esteem? Well I deduce that the only path to the clearing in the woods could be of a somewhat agonizing yet humanizing journey to the realization that to be of this world in this place in time; we are all deformed and damaged from the free will of the masses. And of our own lack of recognition of our consciousness. To be on the endless ride but not experiencing it. Just staring off into the fog instead of seeing the unfolding story narrating our unique passage to every new chapter. Numbed by the dark veil hanging infront of our eyes, obstructing the view of any blossoming accomplishments. But this veil hangs every day. Any person suffering from this chemical imbalance infusion of humanity's flawed evolution will understand my pain when I say I truly don't want to live anymore. But I don't want to hurt anyone. I don't want to cause the pain that has been put upon another "old soul" like me. Only wishing for a better life and working so hard to find purpose to my name has become an exhaustion. That the troubles in my thoughts have dug my grave prematurely. A grave of indefinite doubt led by the soft spoken abused child that was once my time and place in this universe. But a time and place that haunts me it seems without end. How do I as a woman find a way through the constant images of perfect femininity to the core experience of being? Afflicted with the yearning of a meaningful life. Since my youth I am told the sweet smells of their hair, their luscious curves, endless array of gentleman and other ladies consuming their sexuality, the perfect skin, softest lips and the frail figures and tight muscles are the keys to complete salvation of both dignity and divinity. How shall I ever become of this foreign world? How could this awkward, outspoken, emotional, analytical mess of an imperfect being be of an object of desire and a lady of profound respect? It is impossible. On this pilgrimage of peace and self reflection how have I come to see that my imperfection comes as value and that my dignity can come from a lack of superficial physical beauty...? I guess I came to the conclusion when I realized my exhaustion had stolen the best part of me. That although I saw my dearest losing interest and growing tired of my ways, there was release from this bountiful hell of self loathing and need for desires of affection. I truly walk this path alone. This is it. I will see the edge of this terrifying adventure in isolation. I will not walk alongside another when I meet my final farewell. And so in order to survive the night. The terrors of my inner discord overriding my logical sense of being. I must learn the old mantra and the oldest legend ever told. The path to loving yourself. And with that lesson I can lift the veil ever so slightly to gaze into the sunrise. And the bloodshot red eyes of sleepless and painful weeping nights will be met with the gentle warmth of forgiveness. The only kind you need. Your own. And the damaged people that were supposed to love you and didn't know how can subside as your burden. Every part of your femininity that you had not met will not degrade you as a beautiful woman. It will not erode your self respect. Sadness worn as a mask since childhood can be asserted with kindness and understanding. Hugging the little misshapen lady that never hugged her father and never gave the girl in the mirror a chance to explain herself. Putting her uneasy mind to rest. Holding the hand of the young woman crying in the bathroom at the house party alone and hating herself for the drug induced date rape she endured out of hatred for the longing she had to be loved. Frail and starved to gain any attention for validation of what felt like a meaningless existence. And look at the individual here and now. Forgive her for the days she has fallen apart wondering why she can't feel anything. Why was this lackadaisical manner of treating herself so easy to revert to? Honestly the easiest answer. It is easy not to care for someone you do not love. And that is the problem. And that is why the little girl, the young lady, the blossoming woman, and the tired defeated person standing before you cannot go on without love anymore. Forgive her Rennie. Love every thing that makes you this weird intricate human being that happened to steal a moment in the spotlight of existence. Thank the universe for letting you have a breath. Giving you a heart that keeps loving after all the suffering. Don't let the bastards take away the laughter. You deserve an eternity of it. But it's time to stop binding your thoughts by the shortcomings of societal expectations and the wonders of the better, well adjusted individuals in the world. Stay here. Love her. Be yourself. Sleep well my dearest. .....
