Monday, April 8, 2013
The Truth About Me
I have two distinct memories from my childhood where I thought I was going to die.
The first was the complete acceptance of my macabre fate while lying at the bottom of the pool. Instead of panic, I felt serenity. The calm I felt then, still resides in my bones. I wasn't afraid of dying, at least not if it was as beautiful as that.
The second, was what made me scared of death. Waist-deep in the quicksand I landed in at the bottom of an abandoned water slide. I was still crying long after being pulled out.
It's strange, one erased my fears whilst the other instilled it. Maybe that's why I find myself impartial to it now. I think of death only as the past and not the future.
Growing up, there's more moments than I could ever try remember, near death experiences, that have accumulated in my bones. Pill swallowing, alcohol poisoning, times when I thought I'd die from a broken heart. We forget about these because the important part is that we lived.
I lived. And I'm made up of all these odd quirks and habits, fears and dreams. I am the person I am today because I lived.
Things like, whistling when I'm alone. A phenomena unlike talking. Yes, it's making a sound with your lips; but it's also making music out of nothing. I don't even need to whistle a tune. I whistle because I can and because it doesn't need an explanation.
I am obsessed with the sound keys makes when thrown into the air and then caught. I can't walk past a microwave if it has been stopped with a few seconds still remaining. I have a collection of bubble wrap in my cupboard. I pop them one-by-one, row-by-row. When I'm anxious, I get dizzy. So I'll smoke a box of cigarettes to have a reason to be light-headed. When I'm sad I eat until I feel sick, or not even at all. The only time I'm happy is when I'm making people laugh. Some people hate that about me, but I couldn't live with myself any other way. I sometimes make up whole conversations with just myself. I crave human touch. Not in a sexual way, just for what it is. I tell certain people that I love them even though I don't. Because not loving them would cripple me. I truly love my mother with all my heart. She's the one person who can never do wrong by me. I don't think I'm capable of physically harming another person, not even playfully. I'm petrified of ghosts. The only way I can get through the night is by convincing myself that they don't exist. How could they? When someone dies, the only thing they leave behind is memories. Sometimes memories are even scarier.
I don't like saying no. I forgive much too easily. I don't think that's a fault but I wish I was somehow harder. I wish I cared more about myself than I do about other people. I seek affection from people I don't really want and I give them a piece of myself that I didn't have to begin with. I can convince myself of my own lies. I'm a mean, mean person. I can't decide whether I hate or love that about myself. I put up a rough exterior, where you'll only ever see me as the life of the party. But I'm sensitive and raw underneath. And God forbid anyone sees through my charade, awakening something that should be left to sleep. I cry. God, I cry a lot. I grew up too fast, I know how to be an adult. So I don't want to act like one. Be a kid with me. Run through puddles barefoot, colour in books, hold my hand when we cross the road. Be my 2nd grade best friend and my lover. Tell me secrets, or better yet, stories. Stories that you make up on the spot. Make me believe in worlds that we can escape to, rolled up in blankets, where I always get the girl in the end.
Does believing that love is all you need make me an idiot? Because then I'll be an idiot 10 times over.
Sometimes I'm scared of who I might reveal if you looked too close but for the most part, I just want someone to take that chance. I believe in so many things. Real, make-believe, past, present, future, I even believe in you, whoever you may be. Maybe all I want is for someone to believe in me.