if i was brave.

When I was small, I’d lay with my hands tucked contentedly behind my head; fingers curled in my mane of tangled hair, listening without effort to the whispers in the grass, and filling my lungs with the breeze that cradled the stories of faraway places that I yearned to see. The branches of the trees stretched in a chest rumbling yawn, leaves curling towards the warmth of light, trembling delightedly in the afternoon air. The canopy of growth hid my little body from the endless ocean of sky, which brimmed my eyes with a sense of adventure.

I knew then – as a child with cheeks round like peaches, and legs not yet long enough to peer over the bathroom sink – what I ache to know with equal surety now.  

I had not yet come to know of the darkness entombed – hidden inside the pulsing heart of the earth – a poison. I’d not yet seen into the bottomless mouths of men whose greed, wanting hands grab hungrily to take that which isn’t theirs. Men who selfishly tear away pieces of me – scattering them carelessly – hoping to hollow me out to make me like them. Beasts of consumption, not creation. A black hole that is never satiated. I had yet to recognize race, or corruption, heard no false witness, felt no distrust, seen no suffering, and knew no bitterness.

I lay here now, the same place I used to imagine I could make out comprehensible words in the whispers in the wind. I look taller than I did since last was here, but feel smaller and less significant than ever I have. I look up to the same drooping boughs of the same trees, only a tired huddling rather than the dense forest I remember it to be. It is the same cemetery – a mere stone throw away from my childhood home – no longer surrounded by a sea of meadows and marshes, but instead cookie-cutter houses and sharp edged streets.

I had an itch that needed scratching. A need buried within me, with roots deeply burrowed; nourished by a truth, and watered with the blood that coursed through the veins of my being. A need that could not be weeded out – as the maze of its vines were entwined tightly around and through my organs, tissue, and bones. A need that threatened to eat me alive if I continued to deny it.

The need was a promise – the purest truth – that I could be anything, could do anything. The longing that was so consuming – a curse to wake and bed with – a daily reminder that this me was only a shadow of who I am. That I could become a wild tearing tidal wave, beautifully devastating and impactful; not a controlled, unvarying trickle. And I know that all I simply needed to do, is to let go of all that this cruel world has taught me, and simply allow myself to be.

But my strength has been sapped, a maple tree bled dry. I feel so wholly exhausted. My soul is old and heavy; tired of slipping in and out of bodies like changes of clothes. I feel as if I’ve lived a thousand grey-tinted repetitive lives since last here. The world feels like a room that is crowded, hostile, and too dense to breathe; with not enough capacity for me. I’ve had to wedge myself into the cracks and slivers of the leftover space, having to grow, or shrink, or warp my body to fit in where I am expected.

I am told daily that I am too this, or not enough that; the demands are contradicting, and I am left unable to satisfy anyone, especially me. I am left to choke on my words, my opinions. They make me who I am – but who I am is uncommon, unwanted, untamed – and I swallow them like boulders. They’ve piled up one by one – steadily filling my lungs – weighing me down till I can barely lift my feet. If I ever found the courage to make the effort to speak, I fear there is no longer room enough for the air it takes to sigh.

I want to vomit out everything that I have ever wanted to say, so that the boulders can crash to the floor, and my once-heavy feet can lift off the ground and carry me wherever I please.

If I was brave:

I would tell the men who walk too close behind me, who tell me I am beautiful while licking their lips, who stare unabashed and sweat for no seen reason: that I see them as they are, not how they make themselves out to be. Septic, grotesque, and infected by the festering disease of lust that has long since eaten their humanity.  

I would tell society to stop dictating to me what a “real woman” is – and to stop allowing their guidelines to make me feel abashed for being wild or childish. That I am not ugly because of my imperfect skin, or the scars that rake my thighs, or my body that doesn’t fit into their pre-made boxes.

 

I would tell the world that social media and social graces have made us into fakes, showmen, deceivers, and predictable ants content to live lives of mediocrity. That we have forgotten how to live, and feel, and connect. That the only time we should ever look into the bowls of our neighbors is to make sure that they have enough to eat, not to compare the portion sizes.

I would tell all women that equality and superiority are two different things, and that somewhere along the way we misplaced their meanings. That we must stop considering each other as the competition or the enemy, as we are all fighting the same battle. That I have grown to be ashamed of my sex for perpetuating our own objectification, for damning ourselves to be seen as creatures of flesh in our fight for equivalence; discrediting all the strong women of our history by participating in our own exploitation.

I would have the courage to tell myself truths:

That I am not lonely because I have been forgotten or abandoned, but because I have made myself a victim in my mind, and stopped trying to make real connections a long time ago. That I need to stop pointing angry fingers away from my broken heart – blaming others in my past for the mistakes I make in the future – and turn them towards my own rib-cage because I am stronger than that; I know better. That I am accountable for my happiness. That I don’t have to let the way other women look affect the way I see myself. That I have in me the ability to confidently say the word “no” without fear of being hurt, or feeling guilty. That I don’t have to let men touch me if I don’t want them to.

If I was brave.

But I’m not; so I am haunted by the promise, tormented to suffer in silence till I can find the strength somewhere in me to spit up these rocks I suffocate on one-by-one, which I fear may take a very long time.

This is the first.

~Cate