The Anatomy Of My Real Self

The anatomy of my raw self

I have a tendency to generalize when I write, to dilute the details so that my presence doesn't become central to my writing. So that others can find pieces of themselves in my words. This week the theme for my writing was honesty, to address things that scared me, that I shied away from. Things that are personal- that would never make it beyond the pages of my journal or the notes on my phone otherwise. I wanted my writing to be completely truthful, even if that meant it became difficult to write or read or revisit. These are pieces of me I keep hidden- some I am ashamed of, some scare me, and some, are simply the ones I never learned to love.

I

on a foreign street, in a faraway land, at 1:30 am in the morning

sometimes i'm ashamed of my own thoughts- the stray ones, the ones i can't seem to will away. those, whose ugliness is a nasty aftertaste that persists on my tongue, and slowly seeps through my entire being. i’m walking down a stranded street- vaguely uncomfortable in my own body. the new pair of shoes i bought two weeks ago scraping my ankles raw, till it seems like fire is licking the outside of my feet. my clothes are damp, they smell strange- a mix of a day's worth of sweat and oil, the new york subway and fabric softener. the air is warm, moist, putrid. my movements are slow, sluggish- almost as if i am underwater, with a sack of stones tied to my back, or with an albatross around my neck. it is 1:30 am, late, too late- my mind screams. i mentally catalogue what i look like- an internal alarm goes off. i shoot a silent prayer to god, the words familiar, yet complete verses missing because of disuse. i try to remember the rhythm the words are set to- but all I see is my father, and the way he looked as he sang to me. praying isn’t something i do too often. get me home, i tell him- abandoning the ritual, please. let my bruised, broken, bare body not be the last thing my mother sees. let no one tell her that her daughter died a painful death. i know with the many oceans between us there is no way she could could make it to me in time. my mother is a determined woman, one who could swallow the distance between us if she had to, but this chasm is too wide, too deep. it is unsettling, this reminder of her mortality when i’m faced with my own. I have a sudden urge to weep. i pull my skirt lower, tugging it over my knees. wipe my lipstick- smudging it roughly across the back of my hand. i tie my hair, pull an ugly sweater out of my bag. It consumes me, contorts my form, i look like a shapeless blob. the body it took me so long to love cannot be seen at night. self love is something to be practiced only in the day. i pick up my pace. as i walk i think of other women- prettier than me, more attractive. i remember myself, in all my pimpled glory in 8th grade, the countless visits to the dermatologist, and the 3 foul-smelling topical acne creams to be applied 12 different ways a week. I remember running my fingers over the ridges in my skin, trailing it softly over the rough bumps, the textured expanse. i remember wishing that it would all go away. wishing that the boy i thought i loved, could see beyond what lay at the surface. wished i could trade my soul and all the things that made me "me” and just be pretty instead. for once, i’m glad i'm not, and then i'm flush with shame, a wave of repulsion so strong it knocks me over. the woman i am in broad daylight is reduced to this, whoever this is in the shadows of the night. i am ashamed of me, here, on a foreign street, in a faraway land, at 1:30 am in the morning.

II

being sad

sometimes when i'm sad i give myself some time to dwell. to absorb the sadness till it leaks from my pores. pain is not an abstract idea, it is a very real thing. it is about the size of my fist, about as heavy, with blunt edges. it starts off small, the prick of discomfort somewhere at the edge of consciousness. and then without warning it expands, shifting form till every cell is infused with its flavor. it's not something i cannot live with, but something i'd much rather live without. living through this is hard enough, i hope the learning happens by default. it seems almost cruel- this feeling so urgent, so overbearing, so overwhelming- to have anything else expected of me. i try to breathe in and out, in again and out again, and again, and yet again. it is hard to resist the urge to avoid, negate, or say sorry when i know it is not my fault. i am an over thinker, or so i have been told. my search history is full of “how to draw boundaries", and “how to deal with toxic relationships”. i wish i could shed it all, so my body would be rid of all that comes with having a heart too vulnerable. i wish i was born in another body, or with another heart, or maybe it's all in the mind? i wish i didn’t feel everything so strongly, so deeply, so wholly. i continue breathing.