Origin Stories

stand and face me

You used to whisper things in my ear while I broke cookies in half and watched the chocolate melt onto my fingers. You told me I would die someday, and it would probably hurt. You said I would either go to Heaven or Hell (probably Hell), but either way I would have to spend eternity there. I choked on the very idea, and you smiled and pet my hair, and I fell asleep wrapped up in you.

You've always been good at reminding me of what I should be doing. When I was six years old and reading books designed for high school classes, I believed I was already so far behind I would never be able to catch up. I started to run, and you egged me on, but you never let me forget that I didn't have a chance in the world of reaching any sort of finish line.

You distracted me with words and numbers until one day I looked up and saw the people. They'd been there all along, but I'd only been hearing you. I thought I was you. I thought you were me. I didn't know how to be a person, and I knew that was one game of catch up I ought not to even start. So I turned back to you, and I asked you what to do. You told me to be quiet. (Just be quiet.) So I did.

When they asked me to speak, I fell flat on my face, and you yelled at me. They were all looking at me, you said. They were expecting me to be like them. Didn't I even know how to act? But I didn't know how to act. And it was your fault. I'm you. It was my fault.

But it was only my fault because I'm you.

As you can see, I have a hard time wrapping my mind around it; you a perpetrator, me a victim. I have a hard time, because I am you. I'm a perpetrator. You are me. A victim?

You used to stand behind me with your arms folded across my stomach and squeeze and squeeze. I still feel you there sometimes. You press hot and lively against my back, your breath dampening the back of my neck, and you curl your hands into fists so I'll be sure to feel them when they hit my navel. Then you wrap yourself further around me until I think maybe you're giving me a hug. I melt a little, like the chocolate in the cookies I broke when I was a little girl. But you start to tighten around me, and I realize you never meant well (Still so easy, after all these years). I try to straighten my spine, try to breathe slow and even, try anything to make you go away, but you're still there.

You're still there.

You used to press your knees up against your eyes, make yourself small so you could fit inside my head. Once you got there, you started to laugh at your own cleverness. Then you begin to unfurl. Your toes pressed against the backs of my eyes, and your hands shoved up and out to put pressure on my cranium, and soon you were sprawled across my brain and I knew only you.

You've found other places to make yourself known now. You don't even have to get small before you can start. You stand right in front of me, because you know I'm no good at fighting you, and you grab my arms and press them hard into my legs. (I can't move, I can't move.) When you're sure I won't even bother trying anymore (It's no use, I can't move), you let go, and you crouch in front of me.

As you wrap your fingers around my ankles, I get the chance to look down at you, and I can finally see that you have no eyes. No face.

You're me, my face is yours. Your face is mine. I have no face.