These hands, they’ve been mine for literally a life time. They itch and scratch and pick and pull. They type at this very second, acting independently. Just write about something, anything. Just put your fingers to the keyboard and type. These hands.
I don’t fit here. Not in Vancouver, but in my own life. It’s like being on my own has shifted my perception of myself. The reality is that I have no concept of self at all. Who am I? Have a spent these 21 years allowing myself to be defined by others, and now alone, alone at last, I realize that I have no clue who Megan is?
These hands, they are not familiar.
Can you feel it? With the onslaught of spring/summer there is a heavy change in the air. I can feel it. I chopped off all my hair; I’m ready to start anew. I started my new job today and was feeling hopeful and enthusiastic, and then I came home to the same place I’ve been for months. My life is so changed but I’m still same girl waiting for this (or that) guy to come around.
So it’s been months and I’ve changed in so many ways and I feel like I should be this different person. But instead I am stuck as this meek person who doesn’t know how to move forward or be strong or carry on at all. But I chopped off all my hair, so that’s a start.
Can you feel it?
I know I am not very good at replying to comments or anything like that, but with my most recent post I was very moved by the comments I got. I was in a bad place and having people reach out to me really meant a lot.
So thank you, kind readers. You’re the greatest.
I just locked myself in my bedroom with the full intention of giving up. I was laying there thinking really dark things, I mean really contemplating things, ya know? I think in a sense it’s hopelessness, though maybe not really because there is some sort of hope at the end of this very long, very dark tunnel. I think the biggest thing is loneliness. I feel very truly alone in all of this.
I laid there with the full intention of just letting the night come in from outside and fill me up and take me away. I started thinking about sharp things, because that’s where my mind goes when I try to reach out to people and they don’t respond. No matter what I do it isn’t good enough. Crying for help is useless, shouting makes things even worse, silence receives nothing.
What do I have to do or say to get someone to care? Or maybe that’s the trouble. No one cares about me at all.
Rant rant rant. I keep telling myself to use this feeling for something. So here we are. I wrote about it, it’s used, and now here you are. Reading these words, of me at the end of my rope.
I’ve been thinking a lot about retribution lately. Paying for our mistakes and making others pay for theirs. But the thing about retribution is that more often than not we pay for the mistakes of others and make them pay for ours. Humans are fickle selfish beings.
I don’t know what it is about this meek persona I’ve given myself in recent months, but I sit here all the time and wonder why this has happened to me; why the world keeps piling on when I am already not handling things as it is. Maybe I’m just paying for someone elses mistakes. Maybe someone out there somewhere just broke their toe because I told a lie to a friend today.
Is there really such a thing as karmic retribution or does the universe not give a shit about our problems and want us to take things into our own hands? Because if so, I may have to lay some crazy ass biting karma on a certain heartbreaking ex.
Just something to think about.
There is something remarkable about familiarity. If you haven’t had it with someone then you cannot even comprehend what you’re missing. When you can lay next to a person and touch them and curl into their body perfectly without feeling like you’re intruding on their space, because their body is merely an extension of your own, it’s bliss. You can feel the moment they drift asleep because their breathing changes next to you. You know what to do and say to turn them on. They know what you need to hear and how to touch you when words aren’t enough.
Suddenly though, this person might decide to become a stranger to you. To cut you out and put up walls saying that their body is theirs and their life their own, not yours too. So you relearn everything again: how to sleep alone, how to touch yourself in the ways they did, how to breathe in without their breath as a guide. Every time our hearts are broken we have to rise from our own ashes, the ashes we created ourselves when we let the passion of love- or whatever- burn us up.
But what if I would rather just stay smoldering in the embers of our fire, hoping that your breath will come again and rekindle the flames?
I know the perfect things to say. It is my writers brain. I am constantly thinking of the best way to word things and the responses that they will illicit. It’s like a movie constantly speeding through my head.
Me: It hurts because I still love you, because I want to be your girlfriend still.
Him: I… I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it would bother you so much. I will tell them no.
Me: You don’t…
Him: No. You’re right. I was being selfish. I’m sorry.
Him: And Megan, I still want those things too.
The problem is, I’m the only one with the script.
Sometimes I crave the surety of my pen on the page and the absolute power of literally creating a mark. I wonder how I can actually leave a mark. I wonder if I really matter at all in the grand scheme of things. Probably not.
Has anyone ever truly been changed by me? I don’t know.
As writers we are supposed to find the beauty and poetry in everything. And sometimes I can. Sometimes I will go for a walk, just to the store or something, and the breeze will hit me in the right way and I will catch the scent of flowers and the ocean and I will feel so incredibly grateful and humbled by this life I am making for myself. I will fall in love with myself and the world in these fragments of time.
But other times, other times I am cooped up in my apartment, too much stewing inside of me to even open the window and there is no beauty in that. There is no beauty in suffering. We try to say that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. But sometimes those things are just killing you slowly.
Maybe we have to die sometimes to be reborn into light.