I’m sitting on the tall fluffy hotel room bed when time slows down. The swirls of exhaust from the trucks outside float into the orange fluorescent streetlight and I become completely aware of the smell of tiny square soaps and shampoos and the faint tinge of gas from the industrial dryers pumping away inside while hotel workers smoke outside.
You are fucking retarded. Quit crying. I’m not going to live my life around another crying woman. You are so damaged.
I rub my hands up and down my pants and remember wearing the thin hotel bedspread like a helmet the night before with fingers shoved in my ears because I can’t hear these things anymore. Humming a soft song slowly as I scrape my shaky fingers up and down the length of my soft jeans pressed against my thighs. I feel my heart in my ribcage explode in a million little shattered shimmering pieces floating around in my chest.
I would keep you around if you weren’t so mean. I’ve never met anyone in my life so cold. You’ll get there someday. Its okay to hit people because it shakes them back into reality.
I start to wonder how much of this is true. I start to remember my first three hour session with a psychiatrist taking a series of tests only to learn I was angry. That anger always cooled by drugs and alcohol creating deep connections on Saturday evening on dirty couches covered in orange flowers and cigarette burns. Am I too damaged to love? Am I stupid? Why can’t I quit crying? I feel like I say these mean things in defense and they aren’t names but truths I know will hurt. Am I cruel? I know I used to put on a front to survive but now am I gone? Am I crazy?
I love you, Jen. I’ve never met anyone like you. You have such a beautiful mind I just love the way you think about the world. You are so kind and give me such deep love I didn’t know love could be this way. I miss you, too.
I’m sitting here on my tall stool at my table in the present moment. I feel my posture sink and then rise and warm tears fall and roll away. My fingers peck at each key as I try to understand what I have done. Are there some memories so painful that I will shake and implode but never remember? Have I inflicted such horrible pain I create a false persona to cope? Are my actions forgivable, am I lovable?
Yes, you are loved. Yes, you are okay. Yes, you are just who you need to be.
And the answer is always yes.
“Even if the most important person in your world rejects you, you are still real, and you are still okay.”
― Melody Beattie