It took many years of vomiting up all the filth I’d been taught about myself, and half-believed, before I was able to walk on this earth as though I had a right to be here.
—James Baldwin, Collected Essays: Notes of a Native Son
Almost every woman I have ever met has a secret belief that she is just on the edge of madness, that there is some deep, crazy part within her, that she must be on guard constantly against ‘losing control’ — of her temper, of her appetite, of her sexuality, of her feelings, of her ambition, of her secret fantasies, of her mind.
—Elana Dykewomon, Sinister Wisdom #36
please bear with me
When I envision myself healing, I see a sunbathing cat. I just need a bit more heat, a bit more time, and then I will get up. I will stretch my body out slowly and, with the utmost care, lick my wounds not yet healed. I will find another place to build a home.
I wanted to make a post on self-love and the art of living well, but I ended up writing a bit of prose (below) instead… So, yeah. Clearly I wasn’t feeling great. But, looking back on it now, I’m still happy I wrote it. I feel like trying to heal my inner-child would be a lot harder if I wasn’t open to reconciling with the past, and I think writing is such a healthy way for me to process my emotions.
Spread Me On Toast:
I have so many things to say that I don’t know where to look. Everything I see makes me nostalgic for things I’ve never had—things I’ve never loved and things I’ve never hated—and yet, have felt without. I barely even exist yet. I look in mirrors and when I see the person I expect to see, seeing back, I feel ashamed. I can read her face if I squint—make it my sister’s—and, in doing so, I know she what she is asking me: Where have you been? When, and why? Where is that babe—oh! Where is that babe from before?
Oh, no. How horrible. How awful. Why did you spread her so thin? Do you even remember her favorite color? Do you even remember her smile? Her teeth had a gap, you know.
And I want to hurt myself then, because the answer is no. I don’t remember the color and I don’t remember the gap, and I can’t tell what parts of myself were real and which I created to please other people, and I want to tell myself that this is the whole truth. I want to swear it, everything else is cloudy—uprooted—but, dear God, when she asks me if I remember all the things I let consume her, I am stripped naked. I would sooner kill myself than think about this: all the times I let her melt into nothing.
The only thing is, I have become slow. I have so many things going on in my head, so many ideas, so many lyrics, that I get lost up there, and forget to come down. I am a tinker box of prose, and poems, and essays, but I spend so much time daydreaming about my connection to the world around me, that very little content ever gets written down. Instead of getting upset about this, though, I am trying to stay positive and not get too jealous of creators who are faster than me. That’s not the kind of person I want to be and, besides,
I create my own expectations. I have the power to be gentle with myself.
i am forever changing
Recently, in fact, I have been making some changes to my writing environment and reinforcing positive ideology in my life. Before I begin writing I clean my room, brush my teeth, and shower. I make sure I feel comfortable in my skin and in my space, and I make myself a little snack in case I get hungry. This is how I coax the most honest version of myself into my writing. I want someone who truly loves me to be able to open it and say: Ah, yes. There you are. Without a second doubt.
I’ve also started to surround myself with encouraging words. I have a document filled with quotes and, for the sake of being on trend, a dopamine menu. Everyday, I get to open my laptop and have Sylvia Plath remind me that “the worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.” And, sometimes, when that isn’t enough, I remember that River Phoenix wrote “Run to the rescue with love, and peace will follow,” when he was just seventeen years old. I recite it like a mantra, and order off my menu.
My Dopamenu:
The smell of campfires.
The sound of Braeden Lemasters voice in “Don’t You Think It’s Strange?” by the Wallows, and the fact that I got to hear it live.
The Raven Cycle by Maggie Stiefvater.
Dainty, beautiful things (they make me think of you.)
Reading in the sun.
Watching guilty pleasure movies.
Racing to the ice-cream shop with my sister, right before it closes.
Looking at old photographs.
Telling my dad I love him (I am only just learning how.)
Buying thought-out gifts for people.
Listening to “Closing Time” by Semisonic.
The way air tastes and smells and kisses me when I am near the ocean.
Making sure I contact the people I love regularly. Making sure they know I love them.
Cats.
Peanuts (the figures, not the food.)
Fancy little coffees that cost more money than they’re worth.
Finding hidden treasures along pathways or buried in the sand.
Swimming in the middle of lakes, in the middle of summer, until I am prune.
Talking with people I admire.
Recommending people books and movies based on what I know about them.
Forcing my sister to go late-night movie showings with me because I work late and, it’s an advance screening, sissy!
Baking cookies.
Decorating birthday cakes for all of my family members.
Another thing I like to remind myself is that I am allowed to stop. Anais Nin wrote: “I am the most tired woman in the world. I am tired when I get up. Life requires an effort which I cannot make,” and it hurts me because it’s so true—everyone is the most tired, and nobody knows what they’re doing. Even though it hurts, I use this thought ground myself. Nobody can stop me from slowing down to smell the roses.
—brenna marie ౨ৎ
angel food is a read-supported publication. to receive new posts and support my work, please consider becoming a subscriber. xoxo.
