Journal

One

I still visit Cocytus, wailing and lamenting for a child that was never buried, for the child I could have been. I have envied those around me for the lives they have lead, ones filled with happier moments with friends and family. I have looked upon those with such an unwarranted disdain that I feel ashamed to think back on it. I am filled with jealousy at the life I was never given. I'd look on as friends were invited and made plans for outings and gatherings, wishing and hoping my mother would have a change of mind. Whispers of envy, talks of sadness and shouts of anger were roaming the halls of my mind all asking the same question. Why won't she let me go?

I've grown fond of the desolate interior with no motivation to adorn my walls with ornaments to mark new moments of my life. Instead, I have cracks that grow and branch out that adorn my walls. I study the peeling paint, well acquainted with the cold of isolation, with no one there to warm me.

I'm learning how to fill in the cracks. I started at the edges, smearing and smothering the cracks, but I didn't understand why they kept on spreading and growing. Then I looked at the whole and understood the paint was never mine, the room was a distorted shape and the environment unkind to the type of paint used. Bit by bit, chipping away to find what the room was once was. Day by day, filling the cracks from the centre to stop the tsunami of wavering cracks. I grow excited to see the potential this new room holds.

I've only ever been larger than life in one aspect of myself and it's one that I grew to hate about myself. I've never felt lighter on my feet as a child, reaching for highs and breaking ceilings I hadn't known were there. Yet, with each turn I was bestowed with a weight, offered with such tender hands I mistook them as presents. Words of  judgment and disdain were disguised with  love and care, came from all corners of my world. My thoughts dulled into a jaded hum, words left my mouth heavily, thickened by a poison given to me and nurtured by my family.

The mirrors image has always shown me different versions of myself, my face has always been a distorted image, my body the wrong shape and size with my limbs contorted and convoluted out of proportion. My brain, always repulsed by the image of my body, It's hard to remember what I look like, because my minds eye has always lied to me with such a heated fervor that I wonder what else has it lied to me about?

Suddenly, I see a smile with three dimples and eyes lined with pretty lashes. Suddenly, I say pretty to describe a part of myself. From the smallest and almost insignificant part, I find pretty. The next day my dimples. An odd number, three, but how cute? Suddenly my eyes when I smile, the brown and their sparkle in the light. The next day, I see the innocence behind them. Suddenly, I see hope, and truth lurking behind my smile.