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memorialrainbowIt still makes me want to roll over and play dead.
At some point in the entire process, I stop existing. I roll over and play dead, as I said. I am invisible, and I am meant to be invisible so that others will not see me. This is what I have been taught from a young age, reinforced by the one who taught me that I am alone.
And yet, I am not alone. That has already been proven by my relocation to the City. So why do I still live like I am underneath someone’s foot?
I think part of this phenomenon is that there is still someone I am scared of. You would think that after I sorted everything out emotionally at Christmas, I’d be good, right? Wrong. There’s still a small thread of the fear, holding onto me, insisting that this person will never give up and I should just roll over and play dead, go back to the horror I was living in all last year, where my pain was silenced and disregarded. It was one of the rare instances in my life where I actually turned to writing as an outlet for a time -- Blue Impulse came from that.
I’ve ran. I’ve protected myself in every way I know how, reaching forward into both sides. But it’s still not enough. It will never be enough. I feel almost like a victim of abuse running away from her abuser. That’s not what it is -- mostly. I do not do this because of him. I do this because of myself. This weekend was rough enough as it was; my chest still tightens and I get dizzy thinking about what could have, should have happened but didn’t because I got lucky (let the reader understand).
But I’m still putting myself down in one way or another. I call myself a mutt. Does that say anything about how I view myself?
This has to stop -- not only for me, but for people everywhere. I don’t just mean women, although we have a nasty habit of doing this to ourselves. And it’s not just us, either. It always starts with an external source, which the internal source then multiplies and amplifies until the tapes running in our heads cannot be silenced, save for an obvious but horrid answer.
Who is able to help you when you can’t help yourself? Some turn to religion. Others turn to science. The answer is different for everybody, so there’s no real way to fix the problem. Except we continuously know that it must, at all costs, be fixed lest we continue this way. Maybe we should start at the beginning, which we all know, is a very good place to start.
In which case, perhaps we should start with Cedar Point.
Kind of an odd place to be, right? As far as a start. For me, it makes sense, as amusement parks and roller coasters have found their way into who I am. But I was going to Kings Island long before the Point itself. And there are so many things at the Point that connect me to who I want to be -- but it’s also a reminder of where it all began.
And it’s possible to start over. It’s always possible to start over.
Until then, I apologize to anybody I may have offended the past two and a half years with my actions, or possibly my inaction. I do not reserve the right to be perfect, though my other half may insist on complete and total Jesus-ness. I am one hundred percent human, and I reserve the right to be so. If you finally want to speak with me again, I would love to hear from you.
It’s kind of like coming out from underneath a tunnel, reaching that point at 96th and Park where the trains meet the sky, heading out toward a bright and glorious future and whatever may lay ahead on the Hudson line.
I’m not perfect. But someone here is. And that someone gave New York City to me, and I’ll be darned if I’m not going to use it.
At some point in the entire process, I stop existing. I roll over and play dead, as I said. I am invisible, and I am meant to be invisible so that others will not see me. This is what I have been taught from a young age, reinforced by the one who taught me that I am alone.
And yet, I am not alone. That has already been proven by my relocation to the City. So why do I still live like I am underneath someone’s foot?
I think part of this phenomenon is that there is still someone I am scared of. You would think that after I sorted everything out emotionally at Christmas, I’d be good, right? Wrong. There’s still a small thread of the fear, holding onto me, insisting that this person will never give up and I should just roll over and play dead, go back to the horror I was living in all last year, where my pain was silenced and disregarded. It was one of the rare instances in my life where I actually turned to writing as an outlet for a time -- Blue Impulse came from that.
I’ve ran. I’ve protected myself in every way I know how, reaching forward into both sides. But it’s still not enough. It will never be enough. I feel almost like a victim of abuse running away from her abuser. That’s not what it is -- mostly. I do not do this because of him. I do this because of myself. This weekend was rough enough as it was; my chest still tightens and I get dizzy thinking about what could have, should have happened but didn’t because I got lucky (let the reader understand).
But I’m still putting myself down in one way or another. I call myself a mutt. Does that say anything about how I view myself?
This has to stop -- not only for me, but for people everywhere. I don’t just mean women, although we have a nasty habit of doing this to ourselves. And it’s not just us, either. It always starts with an external source, which the internal source then multiplies and amplifies until the tapes running in our heads cannot be silenced, save for an obvious but horrid answer.
Who is able to help you when you can’t help yourself? Some turn to religion. Others turn to science. The answer is different for everybody, so there’s no real way to fix the problem. Except we continuously know that it must, at all costs, be fixed lest we continue this way. Maybe we should start at the beginning, which we all know, is a very good place to start.
In which case, perhaps we should start with Cedar Point.
Kind of an odd place to be, right? As far as a start. For me, it makes sense, as amusement parks and roller coasters have found their way into who I am. But I was going to Kings Island long before the Point itself. And there are so many things at the Point that connect me to who I want to be -- but it’s also a reminder of where it all began.
And it’s possible to start over. It’s always possible to start over.
Until then, I apologize to anybody I may have offended the past two and a half years with my actions, or possibly my inaction. I do not reserve the right to be perfect, though my other half may insist on complete and total Jesus-ness. I am one hundred percent human, and I reserve the right to be so. If you finally want to speak with me again, I would love to hear from you.
It’s kind of like coming out from underneath a tunnel, reaching that point at 96th and Park where the trains meet the sky, heading out toward a bright and glorious future and whatever may lay ahead on the Hudson line.
I’m not perfect. But someone here is. And that someone gave New York City to me, and I’ll be darned if I’m not going to use it.
