Dance Partners

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We are dance partners; yet we have never met.

We skit and flirt at the lowest of times and decide if we will ever meet for real.

I toy with the likelihood of our paths crossing ever happening. Who it will affect most, what impact it would have. If assumptions will be made. Assumptions are made to soften our own inability to comprehend the incomprehensible.

It’s on the rise, ‘they’ will say. They were always too emotional, too weak, too sensitive, as if it was bound to happen one day. It’s a trend, it’s the rise of the internet, it’s the pressure of modern day living, they were damaged, they were too much of a thinker, an analyser, a middle child. Labels without value.

You are always the last resort, the back-up plan, you’re supposed to be a comfort; to know there is an out, a final point, a conclusion to the circus of thoughts in my mind.

Yet I cannot be that desperate, as we have not yet met. I think of those it would hurt the most and I don’t want to be responsible for causing such pain, some would never heal. I think secretly some would be relieved, as if they didn’t know what to do with me in the first place and therefore, they are freed from the burden. There is also a dark part of me that thinks it would teach some a lesson. How awful of me. Such deep shame.

In some ways I crave the peace you would give me, a serenity that I have not found, yet. Though I know there are other options, a grey area in the middle. I know what would be advised, decisions to make, changes to implement, but they would involve a strength and energy that I don’t know if I have left, or can even muster.

So, nothing has happened, as yet. We meet once in a while, continue our dance, we toy with the notions, the ideas, the likelihood. Mostly you disappear fast and let me carry on as I am. Until the next time. Then it all begins again.

The Hidden Truth

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How do I feel? I feel lost, I feel alone, I feel confused, I feel exhausted, I feel angry, I feel unwanted, I feel livid, I feel unloved. I feel invisible.

All of these things are rushing through my body at the same time, all fighting for dominance; and yet the world expects me to be okay. I’m still meant to put on a brave face and hide how I really feel from the world. I am still expected to wear the mask that I have perfected over the years. The mask of a person who is coping with life, a person who isn’t phased by what life throws at them.

But it is all a lie.

I’m not coping, I simply pretend that I am. The people who are aware that I am struggling aren’t truly aware of how much. They don’t know the true extent of my struggle, of my depression. No one does. I have many masks for many different people. None of which are my true face. Only I can see behind the masks. Only I can see the truth staring back at me in the mirror.

The girl who is old before her time.
The girl without hope.
The girl who is barely recognised.
The girl who is me.

Irresponsible Avoidance Parenting

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Why did you have us if you weren’t going to care? Was it just so you could become the image? Or did you really want us but you just didn’t know how to split your time? Didn’t know how much effort it would take?

It’s okay for me now, because I have figured out enough on my own. But what about him – he thinks he’s enjoying life but he doesn’t know how much he’s missing. He’s barely even opened the box. You’ve kept him there without even knowing you were, or what you were doing to both of us by not giving us boundaries. Not giving us boundaries meant for me I was always looking for them and for him, he could just carry on with his own self-indulgent existence. You have to ask him, nag him, demand him to take out the recycling for one time only and it’s the biggest inconvenience to him and his routinely planned evening. The recycling, for fuck’s sake. And you don’t even ask him, I do. Ask him to wash the dishes after dinner and he’ll huff and say he’ll do it when he’s ready. Ask him to wash the bathroom and he’ll say he can’t see dirt, even though the place is ridden with mould; green, black, and white mould. What the fuck? Why do you let him live that way? Why did you let me live that way? I’m not supposed to be the one instructing the rules onto a 30-year-old child.

He has a problem and I told you three years ago and I thought you listened to me because you nodded your head at me as if you knew I was right and you said ‘yeah, I know, I know’. But you didn’t want to know. You know there’s a problem but you’re avoiding it just like you avoid everything. Avoid deep conversations, that as it turns out could have been beneficial to me when I was too young to recognize that other children were getting maybe more information than I was. I had to figure it out on my own. Alone.

Maybe I’m being too harsh on you. Maybe my memory is playing tricks on me and you were there and you did tell me things, but I’ve just blanked it from my memory. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I’m making out. Maybe I am the guilty one. The one who needed you too much, was too fragile and needy that I couldn’t cope without you and you just had too much other stuff to do, so your capacity was all you could give but mine was still too empty; because I was needing too much.

Or maybe you just weren’t there. And now, years later I tell you I’m in counselling for cocaine, ecstasy, and one night stands, and you tell me not to be too high maintenance or my new saviour boyfriend might grow tired of me.

Isolation

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To be alone, even when you’re not. To be trapped, even when you have choices. To be happy with your own company, even when it’s not sustainable.

Fireworks, friends, drinks. All the things happening outside of this space, the quiet and tranquil space I am occupying – of my choice. How times are different. Different, but somewhat the same. The same more recently, but vastly different from before. Development, change, metamorphosis. The process of change: adjust behaviours, adjust surroundings, adjust mentality. The problem: society.

Society believes in fun, reward, quantity. The society I am living in does, anyway.

Everywhere I look there are reminders of unfulfilled people trying to live fulfilled lives, but what they are is deluded and confused, not knowing what they don’t know. Not knowing that searching [aimlessly] and avoiding [pain] are causing damage to the unconscious anxieties. Not knowing that boundaries are stable, and boredom is progression, and routine is freedom. How dare you break free from us? How dare you demand difference? ‘You must enjoy life, you must be with people, you must be out.’ Well, to enjoy is in moderation, to be with people is to be understood, to be out is when it’s worthy.

To tell you “I am good” is telling you nothing at all. To accept it is showing me nothing. I might as well be confirming nothing but my existence unless you probe further or give me more. Shake me, awake me, tell me how you feel. Tell me anything; how you hate being the new girl at work, how you and your partner want to have a child soon, how you’re troubled in work, how you had a bad day, a great day, anything more than nothing.

You hear me talk but you don’t acknowledge what I’m saying. You heard me, I know you did because you asked a related question. Why can’t you acknowledge what I said? I know you care, you show me in other ways. But why can’t you acknowledge what I am saying now? Is it because it’s too foreign? Too far from where you wanted me to be? Too confronting for your own denial? Can you not feel my hurt? My confusion? Can you not tell I am standing here showing you the world I dreamt for myself isn’t here, that you dreamt for me? Why can’t you ask me how I am doing, with depth, with meaning, with force, with love? Ask me, even at all? You hear me talk, but you cannot respond. Not in the way I need, want, thought I had. It makes it clearer why I never told you anything, because you couldn’t respond the way I needed.

I am loved, I am surrounded, I am here. But, as I shake the earth I see who withstands the force; the structures of reliability tremor and I’m left to navigate the ruins. Searching for cover and somewhere firm to stand, with only few to console me, truly.