Monday, June 2, 2014

Drowning (the metaphorical kind)

I like to hide.  I'm under the extreme illusion that hiding is safe, burrowed down like a little mole.  I cover myself in books and blankets and a few layers of rough dirt just to be sure.  Down in the dark, choking on compost, with knotted roots, earth worms and forgotton knickknacks, nobody can see me, interrupt me, disturb me.  I can't be affected.
What I fail to realize is that I'm not hiding, I'm buried.  Lifeless, six feet under.

It's been said many a time that I seem to be a sweet hippy girl of sunshine and floral prints, and I am.  Yet, similar to any good law of physics, I'm a creature of opposites.  I'm soft and fiery, intelligent and forgetful, bright and macabre.  I can't help but smile when I'm angry and crave lip piercings and purple hair.  I hum along to Amos Lee and cook to Bring Me The Horizon.  I knit scarves, whip homemade buttercream frosting and collect boxes and bags of tea (chocolate chai, blueberry green, mint).  I cuss my mouth blue, suck down tequila and yell at movie heroes to die horrible deaths.  I don't know what I'm doing half the time because I'm torn, seams ripping, ribs fracturing, between the sweet and happy and tough and dark parts of my psyche.

It's been impossible to reconcile the two images I have of myself: The first me that wears sundresses, white sandals and permanent toothy smiles and dances through grassy fields at sunset.  The second me that smirks, one eyebrow raised, through dagger sharp remarks and drinks clear liquor out of water bottles at punk shows.
How could those two personalities ever be friends nevertheless the same person?  How can other be people be friends with that person, with me?

So I hide.  I melt in to the corner of the couch, read twelve books, pile dishes in the sink and fuel myself with gallons of coffee.  Jon has stopped trying to approach me gently, no longer quietly rapping on my book covers for attention but yelling "I miss you!  Why won't you talk to me?  Pay attention to me.  Put down your books."  I give him dirty looks and lift the pages up higher over my eyebrows.

Its easier to slouch back in to corners than to embrace the possibility of things that hurt like rejection and disappointment.  Except this is completely illogical and, ironically, it really hurts.  So I just become disappointed in myself, and it's a vicious cycle of hurting then hiding to just hurt and hide some more.

I need to get the fuck over this.

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