I beat myself up enough
I don’t need anyone else to do it
I know I’m fully flawed and painfully imperfect. I think most, if not all understand perfection isn’t attainable especially women. But we are petted and groomed to believe we just might achieve it if we try really hard to align the malformed, pin, curl, lower, straighten, plump, deflate, nip and tuck everywhere.
At some point I think we feel we might stand a chance to make it,
until others throw our imperfection
into our face. We can try to apply just the right amount of color and materials to paint the canvas unflawed, but underneath it all, if you search close enough, pull off the soft filters, point the spotlight, take out the magnifying glass, hold your scalpel with a wickedly steady hand, you will always find enough flaws to scrape together enough to forge nearly perfect weapons.
Yet, the most beautiful thing, the most nearly perfect thing we can do is to choose not to use all that scraped messy matter as a means to self harm or to inflict harm onto others. The nature of the world is harsh enough to kill us instantly and/or rather torturously slow. Let it remain the murderer, judge, and jury. Stay with your writing. You truly are so beautiful in real and poetic form.Your soul understands so why hurt me for bearing mine. We all are flesh and bloodborn with beating hearts and breath. I carried life in my womb, it strengthened me, softened me too! Maybe if you were me you could understand how painful it was. I labored to deliver them safely into this world and it’s hard to shield them from attacks of those more clever and forked tongue, but I help them stand with a strong back when attacked and show them it’s ok to feel the wounds, show them how to tend to those wounds so that they heal from the inside out. I don’t want them to have to wear a mask or so much heavy armor they become unmovable, incapable of love. They’re smart though and brilliant, and are aware of just how people are. It’s not easy to heal especially when the pain caused comes from someone you care about and love. I’ve been knocked down, thrown back, stabbed, and bloodied by words so much so, that it forever changed my perception of myself, I think I’ve told you my story. And it isn’t pretty…its diblitating, and humiliating, and all that venom and ugliness only taught me self-harm, self-hate and self-loathing. Even now when I feel attacked I want to run and hide, curl up in a tight ball and stop breathing. But I don’t! I write it out, I work through it. I don’t blog it so others can read it, I blog it because this is my medium I’ve chosen. This is my place, created to be a safe place for me to discover the inner workings of my deepest truest self. I am finally trying to learn to appreciate what beauty is inside me. I’m trying to write myself into beautiful. I write to release that which tries to keep me chained to what “society” believes is acceptable. I write and let the ugly come out to learn to let it go, to grow beyond boundaries that have been place by me and others, to stretch my imagination and my limbs so I don’t remain stiff and impliable, and I write to move water and moutains, and headstones that have prevented me from living beautifully full and complete.
I am trying to break free from those chains. I would think other writers would understand this. It just seems as necessary as breathing…Doesn’t it? We are fallible and human after all. All of us are just mere mortals destined to be taken dead from this place No! I don’t need anyone to point out my flaws, it’s been done enough; I slash my heart and soul enough that I bleed all over the screen and on the ground, in cups and chairs, inside the bathtub and silently broken bones lay resting in my bed. I hurt enough. My sidewalk is for my sidewalk chalk. My canvas is grey and blue, and black with splotches of very dark red. I am dirtied, muddied and stained, Chaos and tessellated rain falling into a shattered mosaic form. I can only say I am so sorry I ever was this!
I beat myself up enough