Ghosts of Anguish

"Life ain't always what you think it ought to be- ain't even gray but she buries her baby.
The sharp knife of a short life..." ~The Band Perry, "If I Die Young"

Well, I've had just enough short lives. Living life, three months at a time or thereabouts. And that's all you've known of me, bodyHeadHeart. So when you accuse me of being a sparkle-chasing kitten with no concern for the hearts and feelings of others, I hear you. I...

My ability to take an outside perspective kills me tonight. The devil's advocate, they call it, and I wonder honestly just how much evil has to do with it.

You loved me, you said. I loved you. And when I loved you, I opened myself up for criticism, for critique. An honest look at an open heart, with the opportunity to reflect and review. I'm not perfect, and I know my weaknesses will continue to elude me unless I listen, sincerely, to perspectives outside of mine. I try to be picky about who gets to define me and my space; I let you in. I gave you a red pen, and said "Here...this is me."

And your words still hurt. Tonight they haunt me, teasing open the edges of wounds I thought had healed...is it all just a game, like you said? On to the next shiny thing, until it loses its new sparkles and I toss it aside as though it were nothing? Is that really what you saw me do to people? ...and you wanted to be with that person?

I remind myself that I'm different with words I stole from someone else. I did everything I could to change, three months, one season, at a time. I fought until I was exhausted, laid down and cried when I could go no further, slept when I could push no more...and I got up again. One season at a time, fight fight fight death respawn. Start again. No tools. No map. No indicator which game I got stuck in.

"All I wanna be is done." (And with that I had to stop the playlist in the background because my thoughts were careening about my mind too fast to put to paper. Thank you, country music and puzzle time for bringing me back.)

I fought so I could stop hurting people, the people I loved. I wanted to be a better person, a better me, so I was willing to hurt and die and face the awfulness and beat my demons (and other people's, as necessary) and Be Better. You saw me. You watched the fight and the aftermath and I know you saw me die at least once.

And yet you came at me like I carried ulterior, nefarious motives. Somewhere in your mind, no matter what I did, I was the bad guy. I was the one carrying around secret motives, using you for some twisted long-term goal. And that's part of why your all-access pass was revoked, changed to a more generally accessible part of my mind library. I needed to evaluate. To ensure. To protect. To maintain integrity and continuity.

And here my sadness and anger flash, because for all the care I took to be consistent and coherent and communicative I got chaos. I didn't know you were an emotion bomb waiting to explode. Let your emotions color your world, yes, but don't let them create it! ...but you did. And when you are angry, it becomes the lifeblood of your world.

And even though I don't want to, I must consider your words. All of them. I still evaluate myself based on criteria that is old and outdated. I will run updates eventually, and someday your measures will be so far down in the system that I won't hear them anymore.

But tonight I second-guess. Tonight I doubt me. Tonight I let your words out to play, to observe, to explore. Tonight for a few hours I hold myself accountable by your standards, all of them. One at a time, listing. I'm combing for my own standards in and among the muck and I will find them.

Finding them. Finding me. Looking, searching, defining...and living, finally, again.

More later. Loves.