Here, Here and Here -- On Womanhood And the Ending of a Friendship
I'm constantly bombarded, it seems, by people who tell me they wish they could return to some previous incarnation of me. Some version of myself that they felt a connection with, that felt real to them. I'm unsure, lately, which version of myself is real, which version of myself is attainable.
There's the version of me that curses like a sailor and drinks like a fish and loves the Earth and everything in it. Days when life is so bright and full of life and words like "fuck" have a glorious roundness to them; days when they fit inside my mouth like cool liquid on summer's evenings. There's a grassy me, a dirty me. There's a me that revels in womanhood -- in the parts of it that aren't clean and can't be sanitized. You cannot Lysol away femininity on days like those. That version of me writes smut and dreams of men and lays in bed and thinks it won't be so bad because it feels good in the moment, and will probably feel good in the next moment.
There's the version of me that daily lifts her hands and sings of a Higher Power -- that glories in the certainty of something other. Marvels in the beauty of life. Ponders heaven and hell. Words like "sacrifice" and "hope" and "faith" and "blessed" slide like holy water from a tongue pure in the moment. Sanctified by holy fire. Redeemed by holy desire to BE holy. There's that version of me.
Then there's the version of me that hides in a corner. Presses too-fat knees close to her chest and sobs. Lays in bed all day and thinks that it will never, ever get better because nothing ever gets better.
There's the version of me most call Friend. Open, warm. Compassionate. Responsive. Friendly. Powered by the energy of the people around me.
Then there's the version of me that the people who don't know me think they know. The writer. The songbird. The know-it-all in the classroom.
All of these fragmented pieces of me and I can't hold on to one for longer than a half-second.
I cannot call them up. I cannot summon them like demons from closets.
I don't know how to BE the person she wanted me to be anymore. I just can't be her. I can't be that innocent. I can't be that self-assured. I can't be that broken. Because I'm not anymore. Broken, that is. I'm healing.
I'm coming out in the open and saying words like "molestation" and "unfair" and "abuse". I'm pointing fingers and naming demons. I'm taking responsibility for myself.
That's why this misguided friendship ended: I cannot let you take the reins when I'm only just now figuring out where they ARE. I'm folding back these layers of myself and discovering whole pieces I didn't know were there. Some of them I like very much. Others, I detest.
This newfound womanhood is mine. I hold it with two hands clenched in fists because for too long I wrote what I thought others would like to read, sang the songs others wanted me to sing, bent to become what other people wanted me to be.
When I know myself again, I can come back and we can start afresh. Equals on the same plane. Until then...
Mozart, he said, "There's nothing to composing"
That's all we do
We just write and play and write and play and
Here, here and here
He pointed to his heart and mind and ears
He said, "Here, here and here"
He pointed to his heart and mind and ears
There's the version of me that curses like a sailor and drinks like a fish and loves the Earth and everything in it. Days when life is so bright and full of life and words like "fuck" have a glorious roundness to them; days when they fit inside my mouth like cool liquid on summer's evenings. There's a grassy me, a dirty me. There's a me that revels in womanhood -- in the parts of it that aren't clean and can't be sanitized. You cannot Lysol away femininity on days like those. That version of me writes smut and dreams of men and lays in bed and thinks it won't be so bad because it feels good in the moment, and will probably feel good in the next moment.
There's the version of me that daily lifts her hands and sings of a Higher Power -- that glories in the certainty of something other. Marvels in the beauty of life. Ponders heaven and hell. Words like "sacrifice" and "hope" and "faith" and "blessed" slide like holy water from a tongue pure in the moment. Sanctified by holy fire. Redeemed by holy desire to BE holy. There's that version of me.
Then there's the version of me that hides in a corner. Presses too-fat knees close to her chest and sobs. Lays in bed all day and thinks that it will never, ever get better because nothing ever gets better.
There's the version of me most call Friend. Open, warm. Compassionate. Responsive. Friendly. Powered by the energy of the people around me.
Then there's the version of me that the people who don't know me think they know. The writer. The songbird. The know-it-all in the classroom.
All of these fragmented pieces of me and I can't hold on to one for longer than a half-second.
I cannot call them up. I cannot summon them like demons from closets.
I don't know how to BE the person she wanted me to be anymore. I just can't be her. I can't be that innocent. I can't be that self-assured. I can't be that broken. Because I'm not anymore. Broken, that is. I'm healing.
I'm coming out in the open and saying words like "molestation" and "unfair" and "abuse". I'm pointing fingers and naming demons. I'm taking responsibility for myself.
That's why this misguided friendship ended: I cannot let you take the reins when I'm only just now figuring out where they ARE. I'm folding back these layers of myself and discovering whole pieces I didn't know were there. Some of them I like very much. Others, I detest.
This newfound womanhood is mine. I hold it with two hands clenched in fists because for too long I wrote what I thought others would like to read, sang the songs others wanted me to sing, bent to become what other people wanted me to be.
When I know myself again, I can come back and we can start afresh. Equals on the same plane. Until then...
Mozart, he said, "There's nothing to composing"
That's all we do
We just write and play and write and play and
Here, here and here
He pointed to his heart and mind and ears
He said, "Here, here and here"
He pointed to his heart and mind and ears