Some pieces are not perfect. Some are even not kind. Some are not pretty. Some are plain. Some are not interesting. Some contradict others.
We share some of our pieces to some people, some to others. Some we show to many, some to nobody, some we even try to hide from ourselves.
What everyone deserves is a person who sees, acknowledges and accepts all our pieces. Not like – because not our pieces are really likeable, we are not perfect. And not all our pieces appeal to anyone. They don’t have to. The point is not that someone should love or like all of them – just acknowledge and accept them.
I remember the time when I excitedly tried to share some news about how I spent my weekend. He said “You know, I’m not interested in this, really.” I looked at him and said “Well, I don’t like football either. Not even a little. I’m not interested in it. I don’t care about it. Still, I sat with you while you watched it. I asked you how it was when I knew there was a match that interested you. I listened to you, when you told me about it. Not because it would matter to me. But because it matters to you.”
Everyone should have someone who would be prepared to at least see all the pieces that makes them Them. That’s what loving someone means.
Sometimes I lay on my side and with open eyes I make up your fingers touching my hair. I like to imagine you are so gentle and that that is the reason why I don’t feel it. That maybe you’re there, silent, behind me, with me… Just so so gentle. Too gentle. I don’t close my eyes, because that’s when tears start to fall.
For you, my love, I’d make roses bloom and sent their scent to you. For you, my love, I’d make the sun shine and send it’s warmth to you. For you, my love, I’d create universes and destroy worlds. I’d make rivers stop flowing and I’d move oceans. I’d fight armies and I’d heal dead men. I’d bring you sugar and make light. I’d never leave you and there isn’t anyone that would be more faithful.
But, my love, If you deny me, desert me, I’ll be yours never again, and my soul will leave, even if my body cannot. I’ll release my heart and it will never come back.
I’ll die for you whenever it takes, but I’ll die because of you only once.
Snowflakes are gently kissing my skin, warm and awaiting your touch. You said you will give me whole life, now I must face this winter alone… I’m lying here and waiting for the snow to warm up my bruised heart, to cover and heal all my wounds, to fill my holes and my cuts. My tears will become little diamonds, emotions, frozen in time. In long night’s cold caress I will sleep and wait for the spring to return. When birds will come back from the south, I’ll ask them to guide me away.
When I was younger, I was often told I’m too loud – vocal, expressive, not afraid to say what I think, stand behind my words. Speak up. Sometimes that was a compliment, not being afraid to speak up. Many times it was not. I’ve learned one of my toxic traits (oh, how fancy that sounds!) is feeling guilty. So yes, I felt guilty for “being loud”. For expressing myself. For talking to people. For laughing loud. For yelling. For speaking…
I tried to learn to keep my mouth shut. Ah. Never learned that too well…
When I lost my voice, I wondered… I wondered if it was because I spoke too much. That didn’t last long. More and more I wondered if I lost it because my voice, my words, my thoughts didn’t matter at all. Because now I was (often, in my opinion, of course) silenced. Interrupted. In the beginning, it didn’t bother me much. It was very hard to speak. So when I didn’t have to, I was relieved. But that relief was short, because even when I did want to speak, I didn’t have the opportunity. I was cut short, shut up. People around me tried to speak instead of me – yes, I understood they wanted to help, but even when I told them I want them to wait for me to say what I want to say (and not what they assumed I wanted to say), they just got used to interrupting me.
The more that bothered me, the more I wondered… Was me losing my voice a sign that I don’t need it? That it doesn’t matter what, or even if, I speak at all? That I should just shut up?
It’s never simple, is it. When we start wondering about ourselves, our lives, the lessons we learn and those we don’t, things that happen, the meaning, or the lack of it… For me that usually ends in being torn between blaming myself and being angry. Is it the punishment I should accept? Or is it something I should fight? Do I have to stay quiet, or demand to be heard?
I might be one of those that lost (part) of their voice. But I’m surely not the only that wants to be heard and at some point (or points…) was not.
It was just lately that I started realizing, really understanding, not just knowing, that being listened to is not just about being allowed to voice your opinion. It’s about being allowed to be. To express. To be a being that is living, thinking, feeling, and expressing that experience. That being listened to when you have something to say means that not only your words matter, but YOU as a person matter.
I was told “stop”. And I reacted with my whole being. Because not long before that I was asked a question and then quieted after a word. Suddenly I felt as if my existence is in a way “disqualified” just because I was silenced. Even if I’ve known it, I never really understood how significant it is if I am silenced. Or if I am not silenced, but my words have no effect. All those moments when what I said, made clear, didn’t make any difference, didn’t have any effect, was not respected.
It all came to one clear thought: If my words don’t matter, I don’t matter.
And I have to matter, firstly to myself. Can I make others listen to me? No. Can I make them hear me? No. Can I force anyone to consider, appreciate, take into account what I said? No, of course not.
What I can do is know that if I matter, I will be listened to. I will be heard. Even if my voice is not loud. Even If I speak slowly. Even if I forget words and sometimes take a lot of time to remember them. Even if I have to take breaths between sentences (or in the middle of one). Even if I repeat things or get lost in the story.
And I can respect myself enough to know that if someone shows me my words don’t matter, then I don’t matter either. I deserve to matter. I deserve to speak, write, express myself. Nobody has to listen to me – but if someone appreciates me, they will appreciate what I want to tell them. I have to appreciate myself enough to acknowledge and appreciate people who listen. And not waste breath for those who don’t.
Sometimes I feel so hypocritical… I honestly believe everyone deserves second, third, tenth chance to be happy and loved. No matter how old they are, what happened, what they did and want to change, how damaged they are. I want to believe it’s possible. It’s happening. It can be. For everyone. Except me. I want to believe the same for myself, but I can’t. We do that, don’t we?
I am heavy from all these stones in my soul. For some of them I barely know they were – time, wind and tears transformed them into sand. Others were overgrown by moss, they unobtrusively became place for new blooms. But the stone that you are… I’m trying so hard not to see it, yet it glows so much. I’m afraid I will drown. I’m afraid even more that noone ever will know what kind of jewel inside me were you.
I’m here, by your side. Together. But when you go to your abyss I cannot go with you. Sometimes because I have fallen too deep. Sometimes because I’m to tired to descend. But most times I’m not allowed to go by the guards that you have put there. They say I have no entry, that you don’t want me. That I could go in only if you’d guide me. So I wait for you. I’m sitting on the edge of precipice and look into darkness. I’m wondering, if you are sitting on the bottom and are looking into the light – do you see me, waiting for you? Each time you descend into darkness I wonder if you will return back to me.
Do you dream of me? Do you ever wake up in the middle of the night and wonder where I am? Do you ever recall dreams and wish you would still be there, wish I would still love your body and soul, wish you would still hold me? Do you dream of me?
I miss you. I know you see that I miss, and I know you think I miss him. But sadly I cannot, I do not know how to admit to you how gravely you are mistaken. I wish I would, as some grand poet, write to you: “My soul longs for yours.” Oh, but it’s my body that misses you, my skin and my breath, it is my thought that misses you, my words miss you, and yes, my soul misses you too. I whole miss you, and I miss you whole.
Usually, when I decide to do something, I do it. I don’t give up easily. I do my best. But sometimes my best is not enough. This is a story about one of those times, when my best … ah, maybe that’s not how it goes.
I tried a method of self-healing, or healing, or self-help, or alternative medicine, call it whatever you wish. I don’t use labels anymore. It is what it is, and if it helps, who cares about the label?
Anyway, I really enjoyed it and decided to study it more. I enrolled in a course for certified practitioners, not for the sake of certificate, but because I knew the knowledge gained would help me and people around me. I dedicated quite some time, I practiced regularly (me, someone who seriously lacks discipline!), I attended the courses, did my assignments… And I liked it so much!
Until more than halfway through we got this assignment: name and describe 10 thing great about yourself. Things you are good at. Things you are proud of about yourself. Not what you did, what you have. But who you are.
I started making a list. I think I came to number 3. And suddenly I couldn’t write any more. For half a year I postponed my classes and joined another group of students then. Fell into rhythm, started from beginning (that was the request for re-enrollment), and… ah, there it was again. The same assignment. This time I, if I recall correctly, listed 4 or 5 things.
No, I never finished my assignment. Or the course.
It was not the only thing I failed, or didn’t finish, or didn’t do. But it was the one I didn’t do because I could not find enough great or good things about myself. In a way it will always be the saddest failure.
Don’t be like me. Find them. Look hard. Look persistently. Each day. Again and again. And if you find ten, look for ten more.
I’m killing the hope That wants to grow Day by day, Breath by breath. I’m slaying it With all my might, Poisoning, strangling, I’m burning it down. And then I pick it up, I bring it back With gentle tears And lost kisses. Hope never dies. But I do. Every time.
I know it’s not much, but it is my all. It is not enough, but I have no more. I hoped it would do, but it doesn’t for you. I wish it would be… but you say it’s not me.
I’ve never felt really at home here, on Earth. I’ve never really felt I fit. But life was sometimes a bit hard, sometimes wonderful. Just as life is. It was ok.
Then I got to know hell, the depression, something I could never imagine before. I got better, eventually. But just as I was getting better, life happened again. Divorce. Daughter getting diagnosed. Pregnancy. Tumour. Again, I got up. Stronger. Because I knew how to face it. I knew what I need. I knew where to look, how to ask. I’ve learned a lot before. And that helped me survive.
But that’s not how life works… Things got hard again. Slowly, day by day. The pain. The tiredness. The loneliness. Until I started to break. A year and a half, maybe two years ago I stopped fighting. I gave up.
Not completely. I kept asking for help. I kept saying how much in pain I am. How tired I am. How hard it is to get up, day by day.
I just can’t. I don’t even want to. When a year ago first results that a third time tumour might be growing again, I told my mother (because my husband didn’t even react, didn’t even show any interest, not a single word, even though he was just there when I opened the letter) that I won’t have any more treatments. Any kind.
Because, you see, I admit. I’m not strong enough. I need help. And there is none. My mother is supportive, but she has too much on her shoulders as it is. Others… stopped caring. Or left.
I’m told I have to get up. But I can’t. I just can’t and nobody believes me anymore, because every time in the past I got up. Now I’m too tired. My body is. I’m weaker every month, I feel it. I worked hard to get my body to function after the surgery. And I did good. So much that nobody believed what I did, so much I surprised everyone. Now… Now I’m getting weaker. And I’m emotionally weaker. I cry a lot. When I don’t, I just drift away. I gave up. All of me is down. And I know enough to admit this time I can’t get up.
I also know it’s nobody’s concern. Nobody’s job to help me. I need too much, so much I can’t ask for. Even if I do… Well, I do. I do, even if I promise myself every time I won’t.
I just want to stop asking for help. I want to stop hoping. I want to stop feeling.
If I cannot compare you, then what can I say? If I cannot describe you as smell after rain, as fresh breeze of air, as first ray of dawn, as a cloud high above, what can I say? That I’ve known you for a moment and from the first day of time, or that I’ve seen you as ghost too ethereal to touch? What can I say, if you cannot be compared?
I’m pouring myself over your body, gently like moonlight rays, afraid you might wake up and end our dreams. I’m not meant to be in the realm of consciousness.
