What If?
Dear Self,
I know. I know. It irks me, too. This state we have been in lately. This feeling as if the world is pushing us to the edges, ready to let us go. This going to bed in the wee hours of the morning, still held at ransom by our own thoughts: What if this is how it was meant to be? What if we were meant to live like this, holding hope close to our hearts, but losing it just when the end is near?
What if this is how it was meant to be? Life allowing our hearts and souls to blossom in happiness and calm? Life feeding our minds with dreams and visions? Life watering our flowers with clear waters? Life radiating sunshine on our skins, before, suddenly, letting everything fall from our hands as darkness engulfs us?
What if this is how it was meant to be? Groping our way through this darkness. Squinting through the mess that erupts from the falling of the things we had held so close to hearts, we are not sure how to live without them? Wanting, hard, and wishing for a ray of light to shine upon us, but afraid that even that light will not be enough to rid our souls of this darkness?
What if this is how it was supposed to be? This living as if our lives do not belong to us, so we begin to search for the broken pieces of us in people and things we no longer want to remember?
I know. I know. It irks me, too. This state we have been in lately. This letting the voices in our throats dry out, because we are too afraid of saying what we want. What we feel. Why we think what is happening, is happening. Because we are deeply rooted in perfection, that any idea that we might be flawed, deeply, scares us. Because we are used to our voices being the strength that binds us together, so that when it threatens to say these things that we are yet to come to terms with, we open our mouths but never, ever, attempt to say anything.
Because we are too scared that maybe, these things keeping us awake at night might bring shame to our heads. As if shame is such a dirty phenomenon that will forever weigh us down. As if we are the first ones to experience these things we think will bring shame upon us. As if we brought these things upon our selves. As if we are not tired of hiding our hearts and souls behind these masks of happiness and calm.
But again, what if this is how it was supposed to be? Hiding these burnt pieces of ourselves behind masks? Tucking these scalded pieces of our skin beneath loose clothing? This burying our faces in our palms whenever someone starts to ask these questions? This crying, endlessly, knowing that there is, probably, no way out of this darkness that has engulfed us?
What if this is how it was meant to be? Too afraid of facing these demons, so we become ostriches, buying our heads in the sand? Walking with our heads down every time we are out in public, because we are constantly tired even of the basic things; breathing. Talking. Moving.
What if this is how it was meant to be? Pushing these things to the back of our minds? Ignoring their pleas to be set free? Saying, ‘We are okay’ to everyone who asks, before doubling down on our beds , crying, when darkness falls.
How can it be this hard for someone to exist within their own bodies?
I know. I know. It irks me, too. This not knowing how fast our hearts will race each new day, so we sleep with our palms across our chests. Chanting calmness and happiness to our hearts' beatings. Speaking, gently, about our deepest desires: to breathe normally. To see clearly. To walk steadily. To speak without stuttering. To look without crying. To think without deflecting.
Again, what if this is how it was supposed to be? Struggling to see everything around us, because our eyes are always clouded in tears? Struggling to grasp things said to us because our minds are constantly wandering? Bumping into people because our feet are always wobbly? Staying in silence because our speech is always stuttered?
What if this is how it was meant to be? Going to bed in the wee hours of the morning, still held at ransom by our own thoughts? Fighting tears every time someone sees the sadness in our eyes, so they start rubbing our backs? Letting go of everything we hold so close to our hearts, just so our hearts can stop racing? Burning all written records abut our lives because the pages carry so much heaviness for our souls to bear? Accepting that maybe, this is how our lives were supposed to be; held together by loose strings of hope.
I know. I know. It irks me too. This living as slaves in our bodies. This fighting to survive our thoughts every day. This learning to accept help from others, even when help is still a strange phenomenon to us. This shielding our hearts and souls from anything that comes bearing happiness and calm, because we are still afraid that these are the very things that have given us the deepest and ugliest scars.
What if this is how it was meant to be? This letting fear and trauma to always keep us on edge, so that we let go of every good thing that comes to us? This living our lives passively, too afraid of anything that will force us to speak? This weeping, continually, whenever these memories of hurt cross our minds? This giving up on our hopes and dreams, because hope has been the very thing that threatens to kill us every time? This dying a little bit on the inside, day by day, until all that is left is a sad and broken emptiness?
How can it be this hard for someone to exist within their own bodies?
