Sometimes I forget to stop holding my breath. I’ve dived, touched the bottom and resurfaced, but have yet to tip my head back and fill my lungs with life. Perhaps its all the pollution in the air that causes me to desist from sucking in the potentially bitter fumes- even if that means sacrificing what I need, at least I’ll die with a clean, however empty, chest. Mais c’est bizarre, ça. Maybe, if I back-track, I’ll figure out what caused me to dive in the first place, so I close my eyes and let my life play out its farce of a narrative.
The curtains part, and there I am- smaller than a mustard seed.
I think I hope I fear that I was made in love. If this [look in the mirror] is the best that love can do, then fairytales need to stop filling little girls with hope. What awaits is either a broken spirit or a broken arm, both as a result of learning the hard way that no matter how loud you shout “I believe!”, no amount of sawdust is ever going to make you fly. Neverland does not exist. It never did. Ergo, love fails.
Enter: 18 month old me.
– Today I learn not to take parents for granted. Mine are traded for a more capable pair. Love wins.
Ten years pass, ‘bullied’ is my least favourite verb. It’s also my most familiar. Enter: Me.
– I have spent many break-times devouring pages in an effort to avoid less kind words from my peers, or his peers, or him. Hermione is teaching me to desire intelligence. Obelix says it’s okay to be fat. Roald Dahl assures me that a recipe for happiness, or better dreams exists, so I’ve started experimenting with abstract ingredients. I started looking more closely at the girl framed on my wall, she doesn’t say much, but stares back at me like she knows what’s going to happen tomorrow. I don’t trust her. Horse-riding makes me happy. My definition of love is inconsistent.
Enter: Me, 12 years old -to the day.
– Birthday’s are not important to me anymore. Today, we’re moving to a different city so no celebration. I’m okay with that. People treat me better here, although I highly suspect their kindness forms part of a ploy to catch me off-guard. I’m rude to everyone, just in-case.
– I think I like a boy..
Grade 11, the day I meet my dad (for the second time). Enter: Me, scared shitless.
– I’m trying to make sense of a man that abandons his children twice, but still has the audacity to ask for forgiveness. God all but hands me a mirror and asks if what I see is really better. I shakily forgive my dad. Love wins.
– I will never forget the week I turned 19. I dive.
Enter: 21 year old me.
– I’m told by my reflection that I should suck it up. I envy her moral-detachment; she doesn’t have to go through the suffocation, she only has to play the part well enough to convince me that It’s possible for me to face my fears. I fear her. Society has granted me permission to use the phrase “I’ve been through a lot”, and maybe I have, but I’m perpetually aware of those that have gone through worse and come out better. I’m not sure that I want to drown anymore. Finally, the girl framed on my wall speaks; “breathe, girl, breathe”.
I’m learning to separate the life-giving air from the suffocating stuff. My hope is to be better. I want to be better. I choose to breathe, even with the risk of choking and being looked down at by the habitual clean air drinkers. Ça en vaudra la peine.