I hate this body. I hate it but not in the sense that I’m not comfortable in my own skin. Not in the self-loathing, insecure, human ‘I’m so fat & ugly’ way. I hate this body for all that comes with it & all it prevents me from doing. I hate it for the sole reason that it makes me weaker (or at least perceived in such a way). I hate that I can’t fully be the person I want to be because of it. I hate that I’m supposed to fear men and hate it more that there’s a good reason for it.
But what I hate most is the realization of the fact that the purpose of my creation is secondary. God created Adam then Eve. He ultimately made us to please men & bear their children.
You carry a “precious jewel” between your legs. One that’s more precious being untouched, but even after, remains of some value. As long as men exist, that thing between your legs, the sad reason for your imprisonment, is desired. As long as you carry what they desire (for the length of your life), you’re not safe. And as long as you’re not safe, you’re not free.
A one dimensional creature stepped into my three dimensional world. It came face to face with me. I was calm, staring at it wondering what it wanted. It had no eyes, eyebrows or facial expressions (maybe not a face at all) but somehow, looking at it, I knew what its intentions were. He came for her. My heart got filled with terror & panic the second I realized its mission, but before my body could respond to what my mind had realized, the creature casted some kind of spell on me. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t scream. It then jumped over my mother who was sound asleep next to me. I tried with everything in me to move but I couldn’t. To scream but I also couldn’t. What came out was a muffled sound not enough to wake my mother up. I believed that waking her up would get rid of the creature. I shouted as loud as I could through my sealed lips with tears coming down my eyes. My body nailed to the bed for what seemed like a decade. I was getting tired but my fear was bigger than the exhaustion I felt so I kept trying to wake her up.
I finally heard my mother’s voice. She called my name & I knew she woke up. The creature disappeared & I instantly fell asleep (woke up in reality).
I had forgotten about this nightmare the next day until my mother brought it up. She asked if I remember waking up in the middle of the night & I said “No. Well yeah. I went to the bathroom once I believe.” She looked my way (I was facing a mirror getting ready to go out) & said “You had a nightmare. Do you remember it? You were almost screaming (she heard the same muffled sounds, the strangled screams, that had come out of me in my dream).”
Tears started filling my eyes. I hadn’t had nightmares in years, perhaps not at all. Nothing that means anything at least. It made me realize how hard this is for me. I can’t tell my mother that my biggest fear almost manifested itself in my dreams when in reality she needs me to be strong for her. So after a few moments, while still facing the mirror, I said to her “Really? I don’t remember”.
Have you noticed that your idea of “the right person” for you changes as you change & grow up? For example, who you might think is your “soulmate” now is different from who you thought it was say 5 or 10 years ago? And if that’s the case and it’s normal for it to be this way, does it not mean that in the long run, we are all (except maybe the rare few that change in the same exact way) destined to fall out of love with our significant others?
He made me cross the lines I’ve drawn for myself & I made him cross his. We kept crossing lines one after the other until we lost sight of all. What was left was a single line that made a circle surrounding the both of us. It was him & I inside the circle while everyone else outside.
It’s been 8 months since then. Now I’m all alone inside that circle.
Never trust fully, trust enough. That’s what I’d say to a person. I have a good number of close friends & family members but I can say with all honesty that there isn’t a single person who I trust blindly. No one person knows everything about me. I share different secrets with different people & don’t share all with just one. That’s if I share at all since most secrets I keep to myself. The reason for that is not that I don’t believe in the concept of trust, because I do except what I trust in most is the human nature.
Every person has her/his own interest at heart. I may believe you have no intention of harming me now or ever but I can’t tell what intentions future you may develop. I trust that you’d have my back against others but what if it was between saving me or saving you for example? You’d save you and I can’t say I’d blame you for it. I don’t ever want to feel that someone has leverage over me for something I could’ve kept to myself if that makes any sense. I don’t want to be anxious about breaking ties with a person one day because of the potential of them exposing me. I don’t want to see a person walk away with important pieces of me. I sound paranoid & you’d think I have deep dark secrets but the truth is most of my “secrets” are stuff no one would think twice about but maybe it’s because I’m a private person in real life & would like to keep it that way.
Do you ever wonder if any of the old memories you have aren’t really moments you retrieve but ones that your mind has created? Or do you wonder how many actual memories your mind managed to suppress, if any? Do you ever wonder what deep dark secrets your parents, grandparents, uncles or aunts have that no one knows about? Who they were & what mistakes they’ve done long before your existence? Or do you wonder how different your personality might be had you been raised slightly different or in another country or even city or if you simply mingled with different people? Does any of this keep you up late at night?
What comes after day? Night. What comes after life? Death. What comes after love? Heartbreak. Those who’ve lived longer or had opened their hearts earlier might have predicted it. They might have even laughed at my naive self for believing in & writing so much about love. I’d like to say it was never him though. It was never me either. It was everything but us. It was everyone else. But then again, does that even matter if it all hurts the same?