(no subject)
Another night with little sleep and I wonder how much longer my body and mind are going to survive the exhaustion. I'm tired. I'm beyond tired. My thoughts are listless and long, my skin restless. I am asleep. Dreams keep flooding my vision, day dreams, night dreams, dreams of things never to come and dreams of things that once were. Emotional yet steady. My hands never shake, my body still stirs. Please tell me you understand.
Do you love me?
I feel like crying. Not one of those horribly depressed cry's but a good cry, a sobbing wet mess of a cry that leaves me settled. I can feel the burn at the back of my eyes but I stop it. I have nowhere private to shed my frustrations in tears. I need a hiding place, a tree house, a private den deep in the manzanita where I can watch beetles breath. I need a space or perhaps some time but I need myself, above all, I need myself.
Yesterday in the studio, while using the wheel to grindandgrind imperfections smooth I was reminded of a fantasy I once had as a bloody and cut teen. The image of me sculpting my body into the right shape with a razor blade and what a mess but oh-so-worth it. Can you see this? Cutting off the bits that shouldn't be there, the hips, the small belly bulge, the breasts. Stick me in a museum, I'm finally finished. I would be beautiful, in my fantasy, I would be art.
No razors now, only scars. Scars and stretch marks from my first baby and, probably, soon more from the life that grows inside of me now. Scars and nights with no sleep. This is what I'm left with. I feel lonely in myself. I cannot seem to make a connection.
Hello, operator? Please connect me with someone that knows what to do with me during moments like these.
I'm tired. Is that my problem? Lack of sleep? Or something deeper, more complex? No, I am simple. I should take a nap and then life will be life again, as if it ever changed. It never has.
And maybe, if I cry in the shower no one will notice my cheeks gone red.
Do you love me?
I feel like crying. Not one of those horribly depressed cry's but a good cry, a sobbing wet mess of a cry that leaves me settled. I can feel the burn at the back of my eyes but I stop it. I have nowhere private to shed my frustrations in tears. I need a hiding place, a tree house, a private den deep in the manzanita where I can watch beetles breath. I need a space or perhaps some time but I need myself, above all, I need myself.
Yesterday in the studio, while using the wheel to grindandgrind imperfections smooth I was reminded of a fantasy I once had as a bloody and cut teen. The image of me sculpting my body into the right shape with a razor blade and what a mess but oh-so-worth it. Can you see this? Cutting off the bits that shouldn't be there, the hips, the small belly bulge, the breasts. Stick me in a museum, I'm finally finished. I would be beautiful, in my fantasy, I would be art.
No razors now, only scars. Scars and stretch marks from my first baby and, probably, soon more from the life that grows inside of me now. Scars and nights with no sleep. This is what I'm left with. I feel lonely in myself. I cannot seem to make a connection.
Hello, operator? Please connect me with someone that knows what to do with me during moments like these.
I'm tired. Is that my problem? Lack of sleep? Or something deeper, more complex? No, I am simple. I should take a nap and then life will be life again, as if it ever changed. It never has.
And maybe, if I cry in the shower no one will notice my cheeks gone red.