Ever stared deep into the mirror? Looked intensely at it and try to figure out who you really are?
Of late I’ve been doing just that- looking at the girl in the mirror. The sweet, soft person who looks so innocent. Her face is gentle but her eyes tell of deep sadness. Sadness. Deep sadness.
I don’t like gazing at her too much but I cannot help it. She has this strong, intense look that evokes empathy, but what scares me most is the emptiness I feel when I look into her. Her eyes lead me to the depths of her soul and it feels cold and bare. This worries me, in fact, it scares me. How can a living human being reside in such hollowness?
Why is she hollow? What was carved out of her? Who carved her out?
I reflect on the last two questions with great trepidation. Images of faces, places rapidly flash in my mind. Finally, my mind settles on a dark moment. I am naked, sitting on the toilet seat, crying, sobbing, unable to deal with the great pain my body and heart are in. I feel torn, ripped to shreds and weak. Warm blood seeps from the slits on my wrists, forearms and thighs. The razor blade slips from my fingers and lands on the cold tiled floor…
I do not want my mind to go there, but I must. If I am to heal, to forgive myself, I have to.
*shudders* *deep sighs* *inhale* exhale*
Continuation coming soon, wait for it!
I’m so random. Like I just picked up my journal and started writing. I have that blank sheets type of journal- without any thin black lines, dates or so called inspirational quotes. Just blank pages- a canvas for me to spill out my emotions- rainbow coloured tears; flaming red oil paint frustrations and pastels for my mellow days.
But picking up my journal is not quite a random action. From a young age I have loved the art of storytelling. There’s just something powerful about words. You know that whole the pen is mightier than the sword hogwash. Well not total hogwash because there are some elements of truth in that statement. Anyway, I digressed a bit. Storytelling is powerful and indulging in a good read has always been the perfect escapist hide-away for me. Where I drift in the land of romance, action thrillers, mystery and fantasy; fall in love with the smooth talking protagonist and sympathise with the damsel in distress.
There I go again, digressing. I am such a dreamer; and that is a large part of my problem. It might actually be the source of my problems.
Focus. I picked up my journal because I need some healing and a written reminder to my future self. The lessons I learn really should assist me in being stronger, wiser and less frustrated (ba humbug!), and lastly to minimise talking to myself. My family’s starting to get freaked out because some of them are superstitious and believe ukuhlanya kuqalisa njalo.* so I’m channelling the mutters to the paper.
So here it goes. I start my healing process…today.
* loosely translated: madness begins that way.