Mourning the Misty Ghost of Control
This learning to "be" thing is not easy let me tell ya. I'm struggling. Everyday a new day, so much to be grateful for, but my mind wakes swinging at windmills and and I can't seem to find my bearings. It spins like a bicycle wheel after a crash, clicking as it turns.
I just can't shake this grief. What am I even grieving? So much that words cannot seem to quantify or contain the feeling. Grief feels like a cup of cold rainwater in my chest, filled to the brim and sloshing over the sides, I can't seem to stop bumping it. It never tips over, but I almost wish it would so I could stop trying to balance it all. Sad to watch it crash and spill, but the relief is greater and sounds so refreshing. I know this yet here I am, still trying to balance it.
I want freedom from my mind and body. I want to float away, a bubble on the wind. I don't care if I fall upon a flower and pop. It was good while it lasted, peace yo.
Why can't I stop comparing myself to every beautiful woman that crosses my path? This might be so much easier to do this healing stuff single. I live in constant fear. I cannot run from it, it leaks into every room inside of me like darkness and I'm so afraid to actually trust in anything. How does one trust in anything or anyone?
How do I find safety again? What if it goes deeper than "I am not enough?"
"I'm sorry," I think constantly, "I'm sorry I'm not that girl in the porn video with the perfect body, I'm sorry I'm not the redhead who walked past us in the street, or the youthful customer with long flowing hair. I'm sorry I'm not her or her or her. I'm sorry I can't be skinner, prettier, more dainty. I'm sorry I'm not feminine enough, and that I lack the ability to morph like a chameleon to accommodate your every desire."
I'm learning to love her by the day, even the folds and imperfections. The tummy shelf that stretched and grew to support new life, the breasts that sag a little lower now tell a story of bonding and motherhood, my face isn't that of a movie star but I can look at her in the mirror now. Does it matter if I can love myself if I cannot make another stay to love me? Even when he caresses my curves with such love, looks in my eyes and cradles my face in his palm while he kisses them closed. Even when his words are my dreams answered and he loves me at my darkest, still, I struggle to trust.
I know it's impossible to be perfect, I know I never can be but still, I spent a lifetime trying. No matter what I am I cannot keep the man's eye, heart, body from wandering if it is going to, the past has proven this time and time again carving it into me like the tiny passages carved into tree branches when you peel the bark away. I have zero control and I never have. The pain of that statement is unbearable. I have zero control, only my boundaries.
I don't feel it yet, but my body is acting out trust, like a programmed movement while my insides tremor in fear waiting for the crash. I cling to him, and I run my fingers over him, I kiss him, make love to him with my whole being, I fuck him and give over all of myself and it seems that I trust, when inside is often empty, stepped out, void.
I'll never be her or her or her. Why do you want me? You say you love my soul and it doesn't matter what I look like but I wonder if that changes like the seasons when my body buds with child? I wonder if I fade as the leaves do if you might turn your face like the sun and find someone greener than I?
I am mourning the misty ghost of control. I'm mourning the pattern and the past and the future. I'm mourning and maybe it's okay.
Maybe Trust, like Love, is a verb. And so I will keep on practicing.