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I should reach out, he said. I should make my presence known. Stake a claim, he said. Take a seat at the table.
But the fire of true hatred, I realize, cannot exist without the oxygen of affection. I would not hurt so much, or hate so much, if I did not care.
“You must be prepared for whatever comes next. You need to know more, and you need to know now. Before things escalate.”
The rest of the world could so easily destroy me. And sometimes I’m not sure I’ll make it out of this alive.
“I’ll be wherever you need me to be, kid.”
I have a great fear of drowning in the ocean of my own silence. In the steady thrum that accompanies quiet, my mind is unkind to me. I think too much. I feel, perhaps, far more than I should. It would be only a slight exaggeration to say that my goal in life is to outrun my mind, my memories. So I have to keep moving.
Distance makes the world feel small and surmountable, a pill easily swallowed. But I know the deceit too well, and it is here, above the clouds, that I finally understand Icarus. I, too, am tempted to fly too close to the sun. It is only my inability to be impractical that keeps me tethered to the earth. So I take a steadying breath, and get back to work.
“You are inexperienced,” I say to her, “that is true. But you can learn these things. There’s still time. And I will help you.”
“The world tried to crush you,” I say, gently now, “and you refused to be shattered. You’ve recovered from every setback a stronger person, rising from the ashes only to astonish everyone around you. And you will continue to surprise and confuse those who underestimate you. It is an inevitability,” I say. “A foregone conclusion.
“But you should know now that being a leader is a thankless occupation. Few will ever be grateful for what you do or for the changes you implement. Their memories will be short, convenient. Your every success will be scrutinized. Your accomplishments will be brushed aside, breeding only greater expectations from those around you. Your power will push you further away from your friends.” I look away, shake my head. “You will be made to feel lonely. Lost. You will long for validation from those you once admired, agonizing between pleasing old friends and doing what is right.”
“But you must never, ever let the idiots into your head. They will only lead you astray.”
“But how?” she says, her voice breaking on the word. “How do I get them out of my head?” “Set them on fire.” Her eyes go wide. “In your mind,” I say, attempting a smile. “Let them fuel the fire that keeps you striving.” I reach out, touch my fingers to her cheek. “Idiots are highly flammable, love. Let them all burn in hell.”
“Those who do not understand you,” I say softly, “will always doubt you.”
She makes no secret of what she wants from me.
All day—and for the last couple of weeks—I’ve felt like an imposter. A child. I hate how easily I fade in and out of confidence, how I waver between who I was and who I could be.
A woman to teach me how to be brave in this body, among these men.
I know I’ve changed a lot—that I’ve come a long way from who I used to be—but I want more than anything to just be confident and unapologetic about who I am and how I feel, and not have to try so hard all the time. I’m still working on that part of myself.
“like, is this what that is? Because I’ve never been in love before, so I don’t know if this is love or if I just have, like, food poisoning?”
I'd like to know that as well. How tf do people know that?
She’s never lived anywhere but in books and memories.
There’s a part of me that wants to rip his history open. I want to know the good and the bad and just get all the secrets out and be done with it. Because right now I feel certain that my imagination is much more dangerous than any of his truths.
We’re all so busy, all the time, and it’s hard enough to keep my own thoughts straight.
Politics, it turns out, is a science I don’t yet understand.
There’s too much to do, and there’s no way out of this but through. I have to face it. Deal with it, whatever it is.
I’ve unconsciously pressed my fingers so hard into my skin that I’ve given myself a brand-new headache.
she is not to be trifled with. She seems, at times, entirely defenseless. Naive. Even innocent. But you cannot allow yourself to forget the fist of anger that still lives in her heart.”
She is volatile and unpredictable. And heed my words, son: Her anger will make an appearance again.”
I feel the bleats echo within me, I feel the thumping reverberate around my skeleton.
Of course, a migraine
all I can think is here in the dark, dusty corners of my mind I feel a strange relief. I am always welcome here in my loneliness, in my sadness in this abyss, there is a rhythm I remember. The steady drop of tears, the temptation to retreat, the shadow of my past the life I choose to forget has not will never ever forget me
This is not a heart attack, I tell myself. Not a heart attack. I know better. I’m having a panic attack.
But the older I got, the less powerless I became, and I found ways to manage my triggers; I found the safe spaces in my mind; I educated myself in cognitive behavioral therapies; and with time, I learned to cope. The anxiety came on with far less weight and frequency. But very rarely, it morphs into something else. Sometimes it spirals entirely out of my control.
Same kiddo. Same.
“Why am I always getting involved in other people’s personal shit? Why can’t I just mind my own business? Why can’t I just keep my mouth shut?”
I cannot let the broken girl inside of me inhale all that I’ve become. I cannot revert back to another version of myself. I will not shatter, not again, in the wake of an emotional earthquake.
There’s something simmering inside of me. Something I’ve never dared to tap into, something I’m afraid to acknowledge. There’s a part of me clawing to break free from the cage I’ve trapped it in, banging on the doors of my heart begging to be free. Begging to let go.
I’ve always had to make myself submissive, subservient, twisted into a pleading, passive mop just to make everyone else feel safe and comfortable. My existence has become a fight to prove I’m harmless, that I’m not a threat, that I’m capable of living among other human beings without hurting them. And I’m so tired I’m so tired I’m so tired I’m so tired and sometimes I get so angry
But this new version of me is refusing to react; instead, my body is shutting down.
Every time I think I’ve made progress in my life I seem to be reminded of how much further I still have to go.
No one has ever offered me drugs or a strong drink, and probably for good reason.
Why I’ve gravitated toward this room, I can’t say. But in here I feel truly alone. Walled off from all the noise and confusion of the day. I feel properly isolated here,
There’s a strange kind of freedom in giving up. There’s a freedom in being angry. In living alone.
It’s pleasant to be lost like this, to fill my head with clouds and wind and nothing.
I feel as though I’ve not slept in days. I can hardly bear to close my eyes; I can’t be left alone with my mind or the many frailties of my person. I feel shattered, held together by nothing but necessity.
But now—for the first time—I find my own face interesting.
Clothes used to perplex me. I could never understand how to piece together an outfit the way Warner did. I thought it was a science I’d never crack; a skill beyond my grasp. But I’m realizing now that my problem was that I never knew who I was; I didn’t understand how to dress the imposter living in my skin.
What did I like? How did I want to be perceived? For years my goal was to minimize myself—to fold and refold myself into a polygon of nothingness, to be too insignificant to be remembered. I wanted to appear innocent; I wanted to be thought of as quiet and harmless; I was worried always about how my very existence was terrifying to others and I did everything in my power to diminish myself, my light, my soul. I wanted so desperately to placate the ignorant. I wanted so badly to appease the assholes who judged me without knowing me that I lost myself in the process. But now? Now, I laugh. Out
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I tried every single day to be what they wanted. I tried all the time to be better but I never really knew how.
Am I insane yet? Has it happened yet? How will I ever know?
