Isolde

About me?

My heart is heavy, I choke on unsaid words that insist on climbing up my throat like a parasite that my body wants to expel.

So I write here. Don't bother about learning my name or my age, just know I'm not a minor. If you feel connected to my feelings, I hope my texts can help ease your pain.

Minors DNI, and if you decided to stay, for curiosity or comfort, have in mind that I talk about struggling with mental health disorders (mostly BPD and NPD), suicidal tendencies, addiction, death, grief, self-harm, topics that may be triggering.

There is a tale as old as time

About stars and dancers swirling in the sky

About the Moon and her sisters

And a wanderer passing by.

The wanderer, history knows no name

But before you I must say

Romeo and Marcus were deceived by the arrows of love,

As they could not know how beauty was.

For they did not know that in a world with her

Nor Juliet or Cleopatra could hold much fairness in their core

And this, before Veritas I swore.

But, the Moon embraced by the dark midnight

Covered in wisdom and ancient devotion

Bent for the wanderer's eyes and her beauty unspoken.

(For Saryn.)

I remember the sun touching my cheeks when time wasn't a concern for me. The world was too big, for I was too small to see, and in that time, that now I recall by staring at fading polaroids inside my mind, I also recall the feeling that the only hero to ever exist in my world of fantasy was you. Superman and Batman had nothing while I had you.

Now, all I know is a stranger who shares the same shade of hair and dark muddy eyes as me. A star sparkling high and way too far from my reach, no matter how hard I try to run until my lungs bleed, to be, at least a itty little bit, as triumphant as you turned out to be.

Brother, I try to follow the stepping stones you left behind when you built a wall between you and me, in hopes that I can undone the milestone I achieved when you made me discover how abandonment feels, - is the childish naiveness that I still keep in me. Something I preserved from the little girl who clinged to you in those ripped pictures from long ago.

And... why? Tell me!

Why does my name makes you curl inside your clam in shame? Can't you see that father carved us from the same material you turned out to be? Why does you not feel pride in me like you feel in the other sister between you and me?

My pillows, the witnesses of my ghostly guilt, are rusted from all the tears I shed in hopes that one of them could bring the answers you don't have the courage to step up and tell to me. Now, I'm done with staining my cheeks with rivlets you can't see.

For now I know - your loss is bigger than mine could ever be.

How can someone who claims to carry such wisdom not realize the blindness covering the heart's eyes? Well, rest in peace everything we could ever be if you only took the time to step out from your shrine built on ego and deceive.

Congratulations on your medals, I hope they fill the hole in your chest when you look at yourself and realize you never got to know me, when I have people who even overseas can see how I am, in my heart, in my core, and in my being.

The hero now is only a memory, but the little girl grew up to be the hero of her own story. I'm sorry for your loss - the loss of listening every great thing I am and I'm going to be.

Inside my glass body hangs a heart too big to fit there. Beating slowly, it's carrying every person I ever loved, even those who left me behind.

I know I have a lot of feelings. I know they're too much, I carry them like Atlas carries the Earth on his back, unable to rest. Always thinking, always scared, always ready to beg forgiveness for whoever leaves next.

And then, there's the sadness. The sadness I can't display because I don't want them to see — I pass unnoticed anyway, so, what good can cry for help ever be?

But I want them to see me without the need to scream 'til my voice cords bleed. I'm begging for help. God, can someone reach my hand instead of let me drown at least for once? I long for death, but only because it's a sense of relief I'm yearning for.

I don't want to carry this heart on my own. I want people to care about me as much as I care about everyone and anyone. I want to be on someone else's prayer, I want to know I'm loved and heard — and I don't feel like I have any of those anymore.

I'm acting though, but I want someone to tell me it's okay to fall, because I'll be hold before reach the ground down below. I'm tired to seek for the spotlight just for a glimpse of attention disguised as care.

I'm acting though because all I know is to be alone. I'll save myself over and over, but I just wish I didn't have to do it so.

I've been existing, not living. I've been locked away in a glass box, and life happens outside of it. Here, I can only feel this excruciating pain and sadness that makes me want to lay on my bed and not get up. The day last longer than it should, as everybody around me lives their lifes, and I don't. I can't. Because I'm chained to this disorder, illness, disease, call it what you want, that has me.

Nobody sees it. Nobody notices that behind my eyes there's no gleam. My soul died inside my body, and it's begging to be buried.

Still, I keep going. I keep getting up, gazing at the clock hour after hour in hopes that the night won't take too long to come, and I can go back to my open casket made of mattress and sheets. Still, I work, and I wear the mask that helps me emulate something I can't feel until I wait to lay and sleep.

That's how it feels like. A biblical punishment. Being dead while still alive. A ghost in flesh and bones, haunted in the inside.

It's almost like she knows I don't wanna be here anymore, or maybe she really does — people say dogs are smarter than us because they trust their guts, while we decide to rationalize what our body is telling us.

I don't play with her like I used to, rolling on the grass and catching a sunbeam by the afternoon. I only hug her and let her fur dry the tears as I beg for sorry.

Now, as she peacefully sleeping over my feet I can feel her little warm belly moving as she breathe, so full of her dog life, finding a shelter for her nap next to me. I love my dog, but I can't handle the love and concern in her dog eyes every time I'm crying in the bathroom, staring at the sharpness of the scissors, or when I hold the silver edge of the kitchen knives too close of my neck.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

I don't wanna leave you waiting by the door, I don't wanna make you wonder why my parents cry when they open the doors of my bedroom, I don't wanna make you think I abandoned you and that's why I never come back from college anymore. I love you, even though I can't love myself anymore.

My little dog. It's not your fault, never.

I'm hopeless, I don't think things can get better than this anymore. It's the same roller-coaster that always get stuck on the lowest tracks, making me realize that all my dreams and goals are imaginary ropes that I cling to, pretending that one of them can save me from the abyss.

They can't. I'm irreversibly unhappy and painfully alone.

I don't want to live more 10, 20 years like this, carrying the weight of hell inside my unstable mind. Pretending it's okay to be alone and unloved.

God, all I want is peace. I want the peace of knowing that I will never hurt myself and hide razors under my pillows for when the night gets too dark and my heart feels too heavy.

I swear, I wanted to get better. I wanted to look at the sun and feel embraced by the warmth and the light, but I just can't feel it anymore. And at this point, the hope was starting to hurt, for when I get closer to peace I'm dragged back to the dark, the pain, and the small rifts I make on my wrists.

I swear, I wanted to get better. For I am not a bad person like I believed I was. I carry kindness in my heart and good in my soul, but this just makes it harder to handle so much pain, for I do not deserve it. Maybe I did in another life, maybe I commited a sin I cant remember, but now I know I don't deserve to live a life so aching like this.

My pillows are soaked in salty tears like the sand is by the sea. Every night as the tides get higher, and I fantasize about being swallowed by the ocean waves.

I wanted to get better, but I reached the pont of no return. Here, where the hope was long gone left behind, I long for Death, as she was my oldest and more honest friend, the one who spent more time with me dressed as grief for all the times I grieved for myself.

I'm tired. I just want to rest. For now I know that I could never be a mother, I could never be a bride, for how could a rotten heart be the herald of love? I'm dead, even if my body insists on staying alive. So please, please, let me rest.

You got what you wanted. For a week that felt like 1001 starry nights in a idyllic desert, you loved me with your skin. You worshipped my body like we were Adam and Eve and there was nothing else to do in the world besides us becoming one between rolling eyes, parted lips and arched backs.

My skin still framed the marks left by your hands, around my neck, arms and thighs, keeping me chained to you as I watched you drift away with the stars. You won't be here when the sun rise.

You got what you wanted. Now, you don't need to say sweet things anymore. I'm not your perfect angel from your dirtiest fantasies now that I'm not new. You can throw me away now and move on to the next one.

Do me a favor before you turn your back to me? Tell me I'm pretty, please.

Give me something, a small sentence, anything I can cling to when you abandon me, so the weight of getting used in exchange of crumbs of an artificial love doesn't crush me. Give me something that can make me believe, like a fairytale, that I deserve more than being the fragile vessel for someone's momentary hunger, as I wait for the next wolf wearing a loving man's clothes, to devour me with his ravenous lust.

My dearest Mother,

I address to you knowing my place as a mortal and a human. I address to you as your faithful devotee. I write this letter to thank You. Thank You for your divine existence, and for the moment I learned about You, and learned that in this world there isn't only one truth — and I could, fearless, follow Yours.

My heart burns brighter when I can find You in the sea, in the swans, in the roses, in the love. My heart burns brighter for I walk this life being devoted to you.

For Your guidance and Your blessings I'm grateful, but I'm also grateful for the moments where I feel lost and helpless and You remind me I can reach to You, as long as I hold on to my faith. My dearest goddess, I love you, and I love being your devotee.

Lovingly and faithfully,

Your Heradora Aphrodesia.

Now, my grandpa is sick. He can't drive anymore, and his memory betrays him every day. He probably doesn't remember the rides and nice and cool places he used to take us. I'm not sure if he remembers the melody of Tracy Chapman's song.

It hurts a lot, I wish I could go back in time. I used to be happy, life was different. Life was easy, in my memories, every day in childhood felt like Summer and Christmas night.

Growing up is already painful, but watch someone slowly fade away makes it even worse and unbearable. I miss my grandpa, even though he still here. I miss the man my grandpa used to be before he got sick.

So this is life? Watching those we love fade away in front of our eyes? Every winkle on his skin looks like a memory that I'll have to keep with me.

Today I saw this video of a couple exchanging vows at their wedding. One of the brides said something about not being scared anymore, about regretting not confessing earlier. I can't stop thinking about it, and all the romantic movies I'm obsessed with started to pop up inside my head — one of them, 'Love, Rosie', is my favorite. About this couple of best friends who love each other but go through bad timing, wrong people, and a lot of miscommunication, until they finally get together.

I couldn't stop thinking, I couldn't stop thinking about you.

What I want to do is forget about writing this text and forget about being brave, because more than anything I don't want to lose my friend. You told me you love him, and as someone who truly and undoubtedly loves you, I will respect that. But at the same time, I can't stop thinking about regret. Maybe in one or two months I'll accept going on a date with one of the girls texting me and I'll tell you all about it and you'll officially have a boyfriend. But something I know is that I'll forever have these words in the back of my mind.

I love you. I love you and this love I'll have for you will be forever a part of me. I don't regret not even for a second the small and beautiful "something" we had months ago before I had to leave to take care of myself. And I didn't stop loving you for not even a heartbeat through those days. Every single fucking day I knew I was in love with you.

I regret not being good at the time. I regret fucking up. I regret not coming back early. I regret not going straight to the point when I finally reached you. I regret being scared and afraid. But I'll never regret loving you.

I hope he treats you like you deserve, I hope he makes you feel loved and respected each day of your life and I hope he'll be there for you always. I hope he makes you feel so loved and makes it feel so easy that you'll never remember how a heartbreak feels. I hope he supports you and your dreams, I hope he isn't only someone nice to spend time with but also someone who will always fight for you, someone who'll never make you doubt. I hope he loves you for who you are, and I hope he keeps loving you as you change, I hope he never makes you feel like you need to pretend to be someone else. Because I swear to you, the privilege of being loved by you is something that could only be granted by a god.

I feel like I'm a fraud every time I leave a hard time behind. I feel like this sorrow it's just me always begging for attention, playing pretend to steal the spotlight one more time.

If I'm really so sad, if I'm really struggling, then why did I laugh at a movie this afternoon? I'm probably just faking it. Believing this fantasy that I'm ill so someone for once look at me.

I feel like I'm an impostor. A cheap actress dreaming with an Oscar.

I don't deserve the pity, the help, the support, none of this, because I'm definitely not that depressed. Sometimes I can even get up and socialize, there are days I can even go to parties... I said I wanted to die last week, so why am I still keep going? Because I'm a liar, deceptive and fake.

I'm an impostor. Maybe none of this pain is true, just me always looking for something I never had, a tender glance or the warmth of the gentle touch of a hand. I don't deserve having someone to care...

I love my friends. I know I don't deserve them. I don't deserve their love and their patience. They need something that won't break down when the first Autumn breeze blows my structures.

When I see the pictures all I can spot is the ghost in the corner poisoning their smiles. I'm a phantom haunting their happiness and turning the golden days into ruined castles.

I love my friends. I wish they didn't have to worry about me. I wish I were a better friend. But I can't. I can't be good. I am no good.

In my visions, I take my child to the sea, so she can touch the sand and bathe in the salty and sacred water. I tell her about the old religions, and the gods that exist in the soil and the stars.

Sometimes, I caress my belly, like she was already growing and making a home out of my body. I love my daughter.

But lately, the dream feels even more like a dream, and less like a reality. I think the more my heart breaks in disappointment and abandonment, the less I feel like I could ever be a mother.

My adored daughter deserves better than a mother who can't be loved. How could I ever be the nurturer of a child when the only person who never left me is this unbearable sorrow?

They say the love of a mother is sacred, and in all my divinity I chose not to make my beautiful girl be born from a person who is more of a phantom than a human being. I can't fail as a mother if I spare my daughter from this punishment.

I won't complain about anything, I don't have limits or boundaries. If you want to hurt me I'll arch my back and moan for more, if you want to treat me like a wife for two hours I'll roll my eyes and tell you how good it feels.

And then, you'll leave. You can't stay, I don't want you to stay. It's like Cinderella when the clock hits midnight. If you stay the spell will fade away.

You ask me why. You wonder if I'm a slut, maybe a nymphomaniac. A succubus hiding in a human body.

You wouldn't understand. How could you even understand that I do this for... love? For those ephemeral moments where I'm needed and wanted and... useful? I'm better off as a fantasy, because I know that once you're done with my body, you'll leave. There are no promises, there is no hope.

I let myself be used because this is the only thing left for me in this world, because it's the only thing I'm good for, because it's the only thing I'm worth of. I can't have love, so I'll stick with the crumbs of it — passion and desire, lust bleeding out from the unfixable cracks in my rotten heart.

And then, I cry over the invisible dirt covering my skin. Because I'll always feel inevitably disgusting. But it's better than nothing, it's better than starve.

But still. It's disgusting, and I hate it. It's not what I want.