A poetic expression of some of my struggles growing up.
Told through an extended metaphor of a driver on the roadway.
Slow and steady wins the race, but be mindful now... stationary isn't a pace.
Well I've shifted into neutral (a familiar place for the gear shift) waiting for this amber to transform, seems being extra cautious has become the norm.
I hear persons zooming by doppler effect colouring their laughter.
Overtaking me in this race, left me in my lane and in my place.
But I'm comfortable here… And I’m stuck here… And I don’t know what any other place feels like.
When I speak of fear - I reference this unending doubt that holds tremendous clout over my actions and whatever I think about ...
Uncertainty is my fiercest enemy, which is odd because doubting is my prime proclivity.
(Will I be enough?) (Will I measure up?)
(Will I rise as aspirations or as disillusions drop?)
Well, I've traveled a few of these roads. They lead me to various precarious places without familiar faces. In my pursuit of belonging, it's always so evasive... But the faces I do see all share the Same Expressions just redundant apathetic indifferent Stoic Dispositions.
No one cares to hear me out… I built a moat to keep them out. I clogged my ear so I wouldn’t hear, the caring counsel of a friend, desperately fighting to see my fever end.
These roads, I travelled. These roads, I hate. These roads, my troubles, these lanes create. These Roads! May be many, but my life is one, and if things travel faster in a straight line, maybe I should leave the past all behind, because it's twists and turns, leave me lonesome burns, switching lanes every time calamity came, looking back I'd never do it all the same. Or maybe I would, because I love the pain, as if it's my own self atoning punishment for the sins I commit, behold self mutilation, can’t say you weren’t warned of it.
The first time I cut was in college. Just shallow cuts on the forearm, forced harm fraying the upper epidermis, a microcosm of a crisis. I felt relief as I bled, well at least I thought I did. The next day the lines were discovered, and not an ounce of sympathy recovered. Decided, not to cut… anywhere that wouldn't be covered. The blade rose to rest on my brachium, same pain, same pleasure, same cuts that made me numb. Oh, I knew it was wrong, and it didn’t help with coping.
But I did the cutting! I held the blade. I held regrets and longed for the grave.
It was me who drew the blood from my arms like water from a well, then feigned acceptable answers, told everyone I was simply swell.
It's not metaphorical or analogical It’s not some sort of played out hypothetical. Oh, the lacerations in my flesh, the palpitations in my chest testify that I couldn’t cope with this, I couldn’t fathom why I’d exist.
And it made me so sick, that I couldn't cloak it... So I sought out the easy escape.
These quick fixes - caught betwixt! Self defeat inducing and self image reducing; left me seeking suicide more times than I could count, too many instances where my mind would drift off to vast distances thinking, “what if, what if I were no more.” That’s what’s left when you see life itself as a chore. Thankfully I learned to manage, this carnage of my life in pieces, to control the damage, to pack up the baggage, clear the drainage, stay within the dosage, do everything in my power in order not to mismanage the good memories, because there was a shortage...
Let' talk about bridges and the gaps they supposedly connect. I’ve never chanced upon a bridge that was riskless yet. So every step made upon, is a gamble with beyond. One could slip into another state, meet an end of their earthly fate... Every time I've approached an overpass, I’ve wondered if the structure would last, under the burden of my weight, would it, it’s duty abdicate?
Bridges are intermediaries between point A and point B - that always seemed pretty pointless to me. Because every time I'd attempt a crossing, some haphazard happenstance of a circumstance would occur- that I'd end up remorsing.
No one wants to grow up. We don't. We tell ourselves that we do, that we long for the freedom too, but that's a claim made in heady haste and desperately devoid of all wisdom. Because the chain of freedom is responsibility and that’s chained to accountability and ultimately, those links proved too heavy for me. There are bridges I'd rather burn than build! Glasses that I'd rather keel than fill! There are things I’m comfortable leaving unresolved, to leave unwound than to convolve. I don’t fight to tie up the loose ends, with is why I leave a wake of one close friends. I guess bridges aren't for cowards, like me, I guess that's why I never get to point B.
Ever been pulled over? Pulled aside? Pulled away? Pulled down or apart? If not you're lucky, because it affects the heart. I have an issue with authority. Maybe the singular doesn't do much justice... I have issues with authorities. Never liked the idea of anyone being over me. Not so much of fright, but one of insecurity when I lie on my bed at night...
I feel as if even surface level questions are probing, and I can feel my sanity folding, it's not something I take lightly. This had been a heavy hindrance between me and my mother, who at this time rarely even bothers to bother… but I’m trying, after all, it’s a commandment with promise right?
I went to counselling once, against my will. Can't remember what became of those sessions, hopefully I learned some lessons. His face was familiar, years earlier he preached at my dad’s funeral. Well I guess it would have made relating a bit more, natural?
I hear the horns honking behind me, they're ready to go, but I'm at a standstill.
A standstill with no traffic, how ironic.