I feel like I have this black, viscous poison swirling under my skin, slowly getting closer to the surface the older I get. And while I have always known it was there, I have never known where it came from. It never made any sense, this poison. Not in conjunction with the memories I have of my past.
I have memories of being happy, of everything being ok. But the memories are like paintings. They are bright and full of sunshine, so bad things can't be happening in them. The mind rejects the idea that beauty can hold bad things.
The older I get, the closer this black tar seeps to the surface, the more I realize that it was put in my veins by something. That it resides in every bright color, every layer of sunshine and childish laughter. The blackness sharply highlights the light, making chiaroscuro sharp enough to cut out of these technicolor memories.
I think about how hard I worked to look happy, how unacceptable it was to be unhappy. I think about how manipulated my entire reality was, how false it was. Judgement was love and love was hate, light was dark and knowledge was fear. I think about how I had ignorance pushed into my skin, how I was swaddled in it. I think about how, even now, I'm not allowed to think of it as wrong, not allowed to be angry that I was shoved into a box with the lid nailed shut and told it was Gods loving will that we be this tightly encased in gloom. This enclosed box would open one day and we'd be in a world composed of light and incredible beauty, populated by people who think exactly the way they're supposed to think.
I think about that beautiful world, and how I always knew the poison that lurked below those bright colors was meant for me. Because I didn't want what was on the surface, I would get the rage that lurked below it all.
I think about how I view beauty now, how much I mistrust it. I look out my window at this beautiful world that I've lightly settled myself into, and I look for the dark edges. I think about love, and how I really have no idea what it means beyond the endless need to give everything you are to someone or something that will take it all in and judge it not worthy. Not being worthy is important. It means that I was always wrong, to hate what I was given, to think I knew better. I was wrong to look for something more, to subversively and quietly create an escape route for myself, a tunnel crafted of books and fear and blind trust in a subconscious desire to live. I had to... have to be wrong about that. Because if I'm not wrong, how can I love those who would have kept me there, those who would pull me back in a heartbeat. If I wasn't wrong, if I wasn't unworthy of Gods love, then I left for good reasons. And they stay for terrible reasons. No middle ground, no soft acceptance. If I'm worthy of being loved, then I am by god damn worthy of being allowed to hate.
And I don't want to hate. Hate is not comforting, it is not soft. It is not nurturing and giving.
Sadly, neither is this kind of love. This kind of love has to hide that which it can't control, has to hide from that which exposes its brittle underbelly to truth. I can't complain about the love I receive when the love I give has so many caveats and disclaimers. So many landmines of fear and anger.
I have memories of being happy, of everything being ok. But the memories are like paintings. They are bright and full of sunshine, so bad things can't be happening in them. The mind rejects the idea that beauty can hold bad things.
The older I get, the closer this black tar seeps to the surface, the more I realize that it was put in my veins by something. That it resides in every bright color, every layer of sunshine and childish laughter. The blackness sharply highlights the light, making chiaroscuro sharp enough to cut out of these technicolor memories.
I think about how hard I worked to look happy, how unacceptable it was to be unhappy. I think about how manipulated my entire reality was, how false it was. Judgement was love and love was hate, light was dark and knowledge was fear. I think about how I had ignorance pushed into my skin, how I was swaddled in it. I think about how, even now, I'm not allowed to think of it as wrong, not allowed to be angry that I was shoved into a box with the lid nailed shut and told it was Gods loving will that we be this tightly encased in gloom. This enclosed box would open one day and we'd be in a world composed of light and incredible beauty, populated by people who think exactly the way they're supposed to think.
I think about that beautiful world, and how I always knew the poison that lurked below those bright colors was meant for me. Because I didn't want what was on the surface, I would get the rage that lurked below it all.
I think about how I view beauty now, how much I mistrust it. I look out my window at this beautiful world that I've lightly settled myself into, and I look for the dark edges. I think about love, and how I really have no idea what it means beyond the endless need to give everything you are to someone or something that will take it all in and judge it not worthy. Not being worthy is important. It means that I was always wrong, to hate what I was given, to think I knew better. I was wrong to look for something more, to subversively and quietly create an escape route for myself, a tunnel crafted of books and fear and blind trust in a subconscious desire to live. I had to... have to be wrong about that. Because if I'm not wrong, how can I love those who would have kept me there, those who would pull me back in a heartbeat. If I wasn't wrong, if I wasn't unworthy of Gods love, then I left for good reasons. And they stay for terrible reasons. No middle ground, no soft acceptance. If I'm worthy of being loved, then I am by god damn worthy of being allowed to hate.
And I don't want to hate. Hate is not comforting, it is not soft. It is not nurturing and giving.
Sadly, neither is this kind of love. This kind of love has to hide that which it can't control, has to hide from that which exposes its brittle underbelly to truth. I can't complain about the love I receive when the love I give has so many caveats and disclaimers. So many landmines of fear and anger.
Comments
Post a Comment