The Struggle
I’m burning, pushing back, hoping for the best but expecting the usual. Oh, my heart is heavy. I seem a bit lost now, sucker punched, or perhaps now just waking from a knock to the head, groggy and dull. Sapped. Back two steps. Tripped and falling.
Its been rough, wild, complicated and miscommunicated. Trust is so hard to come by. So easy to dash. I’ve had challenges of all kinds, failed at some, succeeded at others. Pushing, always believing, trusting, hoping. Then it got hard to keep on keeping on.
Men are ever disappointing. Sorry, fellas, its true. I pick you for your issues and dramas, on subconscious purpose. You pick me to rebel. I’m the great mystery and scare, the ever-on-the-edge woman, who dazzles and dissolves. I fall into your arms, seemingly unarmed but for my wicked smile. And I walk away briskly at dawn, or sooner, if I can snag it. I run from conversations, from confrontations, from concerts and connections and cups of coffee. I run, keep on running, holding on to nothing or anyone, solidly alone. I am sweetly sarcastic, wonderfully cool and exciting, but ever so remote. You can almost touch me, almost taste me but I don’t last. I’m a multo – a ghost. I’m almost never there, if you blink, you’ll miss me. Next to you, I’m a million miles away. I solo in a great big city. Shells, Deida calls them. I’m an armadillo. I’m barnacled and brittle and easy to electrify. I sizzle snap fast at your outstretched hand.
I know the crush of opportunity. The swell of hope. The nanosecond I look at you and see something beyond tomorrow morning’s sprint. The chance, the toss of dice. The you, the number of yous, who’ve passed through me like smoke. The emotional stains have only been semi-permanent. A scare or two, a possibility and an utterly painful mistake. Reminders that its easy for men, physically. We take on so much, take in so much. And give, endlessly.
I’ve always been the new girl (7 grade and high schools, moved countless times as a child), I’ve always stood out in some way – with wit, art or hair color, later with boobs. I’m the black sheep, the exile of my family. I’m an artist, working in cutting edge technology and erotica. I grew up with little affection or attention, loads of abuse and chaos, having to wing it constantly. Or retreat, deep into my shells. Reticent became second nature. Poke and deeper I go. Poke more, and I become rabbit fast, gone out the door, running away. Both tortoise and hare, fight and flight. Resourcefully alive.
I am lost. I admit it. I have no idea what to do. Run, stay, fight, flight, cry, silence, or stay paralyzed. Ah, why have dreams, I think sometimes, and then another pops up giggly and alive, unbeckoned. Like so many balloons, I’ve followed them on glorious adventures, scary sidetracks, terrible tangents, goof offs and got losts. I’m tired. Where are they leading, except in circles, into the same problems over and over. The same issues, drawn out differently. I’m so creatively subconsciously directing this life that seems like Dante’s Inferno at times, levels of the same mistakes on view.
Then, then, I’m still. I stop crying, raging, looking for excuses. I sleep, dream, listen for something to hold on to, to guide me. I’m still, supremely sad, but the tears have stopped. I’m listening. I’m settling down, after another hit to my psychic solar plexis. I’m letting the wind back in, slowly.
I’m paralyzed right now, sipping in air, until I can move freely. I feel bound. I feel overwhelmed.
I’m going to sleep, long and deep, and hope something surfaces to guide or inspire me.
Peace,
Melissa
