Today I woke up. And I wish I never had. I wish the world would have told me that it would be one of the worst days of my life and that I should just roll over and shut my eyes once more. But the world was against me. Giving me a warning would've been too kind, too merciful. And the world's a tough bitter b**ch who knows how to serve it cold.
I leaped out of bed, late again as the faint sound of my naively happy alarm flooded my sh*it night's sleep, and headed to the shower. I've performed a self-deprecating ritual for the past three weeks. I walk to the bathroom with a slouch, feeling every crick in my neck and complaining about it relentlessly in my head, and I tell myself that I don't need to impress anyone today. So I shower, put on any clean, or 50% clean, clothes I can find, and walk out the door. Self care has become too tiresome for me, and when you've been made to feel like sh*t about yourself internally, there's no real point in taking care of yourself externally. The dog whines, I whine, and I drive away wishing I could turn back around and forget everything. Something Pacific Northwest writers share is the grand amount of cynicism placed throughout their writing. It's almost as if it's a universal truth to hate everything. That's when you really become a star. Once you've made sure there's nothing left to say, except for list after list of every injustice done to you and the ones you can barely utter that you've done. I felt like a Pacific Northwest writer today. I don't know if it was the blatant disregard for my emotions when my closest friend told me I was "a piece of sh*t", or the fact that every morning I wake up without the desire to eat, or move, or be. Both were pretty bad. It's silly of me to pin them together as if it were a competition. Who can take Grace down the quickest?! C'mon boys and girls, she's already at her lowest! Look at her spreading herself too thin, take her down! Maybe I am a piece of sh*t. Maybe there are things that I will never fully understand and won't be able to replace with an alternative decision because at different stages of life we aren't different people thinking different things, feeling everything so quickly. But I want to. That should count for something. I saw a really silly innocent video of a girl just talking and checking in with her viewers, and she said something that 15 year old me, or 16 year old me, or even me when I'm not having manic depression and anxiety would think was absolute horse crap because it's just not good enough. But it was. She said that the fact that we make mistakes and feel bad about them means that we have the capability to produce and feel empathy. It means we aren't seeking to harm. To do wrong to others. I don't think that would've been enough for me 6 months ago, or a year ago, or three years. But it was enough for me. Forgiving yourself is the hardest thing to conquer when alternative sources are making sure that you know everyday of your life that you've failed. You've failed them, which is a really difficult thing to process. It's like when you were a kid, and there was a puddle outside in the driveway or in the parking lot of a Winco, and you just have to immerse yourself in the feeling of pure joy by splashing as hard as you can with one giant leap into that puddle. But when you do, you realize that you just got your mom's pure white Keds drenched. This is very minuscule, and greater mistakes have been made, some having yet to be created. But the feeling is there. I didn't mean to drench your Keds. I'm sorry I did. Feeling lost within your own body, or your own mind, there's not much else that feels worse. The horribly tangled labyrinth that continues to give you an option, a way out, but the cost isn't worth it. Or it's not desired. Bu I'm so tired of running in circles. I can't keep passing the same tree, with it's leaves dark and ruthless and full of thorns, over and over again. Each scratch lashes deeper and deeper. I should've probably slapped a bandage on it the first time, but I thought it could heal. Time heals all wounds, they say. But what happens when you take too much time? When the wound becomes a scar, or an infection. Continuously spreading or remaining with you for years. Yeah, if I had just bandaged it the first time. I tell myself every day, during the end of my self-deprecating ritual, just keep going. Maybe someday I won't keep tripping over the vines growing through the floor, or I'll just miss her Keds with the cold mucky water. Or maybe I'll still be a piece of sh*t. And maybe you'll realize you are too.
1 Comment
Charlotte
5/7/2017 09:05:14 pm
Hi there, Grace,
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AuthorGrace Willcox. High school student. Likes to think of herself as cunning & witty. Probably isn't. Enjoy. Archives
March 2017
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