What she said

What She Said
“Yeah, this is my future. This is my past.” The outpouring of my soul starts with the right song, my hips sway to every riff of the guitar, and my hands orchestrate the flowing of my heart out of the repressed speaker that I often was. “Yeah, this is my future. This is my past.”
My mind colors the ego in an abstract, and sometimes pretentious way, but God knows I really do identify with that innerworld that pulsates along the beat of the drums. “Sappy, I know.” That’s what the shame in the back of my head wants to say .. but why should I entertain it, is it really to be sappy to be so artistic in the head but tightlipped and stiff in the knees.
Is it really sappy to be that in love with creation, almost absolutely infatuated with art, or is it now at the point of tragedy because my knuckles grow white as fists cling to a canvas. “No, I can’t share this, I cannot put my inner world on this blank piece of paper. It’s mine. It’s intimate.” Angels cry woe, “Silly girl, that isn’t self possession, nor is it privacy.”
My jaw tightens as I look the other way, seemingly stubborn, but truly afraid of what I will have to face if I admit this truth.  Well let’s admit this truth: I hate looking in the mirror. But — this is what my business is all about, this is my recently new approach to life. So let me cut this, with a sigh of submission I make this clean break.
Vulnerability, I know of it. After my best friend and only parent died, I was incorrectly misdiagnosed, in unprofessional conditions by a psychology intern. Nowhere to go, and amidst my new grief, I lived with the soon to be doctor that insisted I was borderline personality disorder.
“God, that fucking hurts to say out loud.” But at the age of 18, that was the beginning to 5 long years of fucked up Repression Rio. I folded myself into a box and chained myself in the attic of my mind. “Rattle those chains, Rio, we gotta let the audience know we’re not exactly living, but hey, we are damn well around.”
And that’s what I did. Moved to beautiful New York City and eventually got so worn down pretending to be my old adventurous self. I never left my room, friends? Zero. I dreamed of living in the Pent Tree House but I never did step on that first step of the ladder. I clinged instead. Freeze loop.
“Yknow, there is always something about Morrissey that gets me going. Put this song on repeat.” Growing up, I never really did entertain my feelings, but I was reflective, introspective, all the great “-tives.” I saw music in colors – they were different textures as they flowed in and out of my space like silk falling through air. Film would eat up my mind, stunned, I would psychoanalyze characters, symbols, and cinematography choices. I was hungry for any subconscious messages directors and musicians could be leaving for us in between the lines. I come from a background where I didn’t really get to grieve, well, anything.
I suppose that manifested into dysfunctionality.
If you wanted me to walk, you’re going to have to wait for me to find the perfect song to walk to. I explored the city by subgenre, and then by mood. Emotions were real but letting feelings sink in, I didn’t know how to process them on my own, so I didn’t. To speak of ’em, I would become mute under the pressure. This all left Rio to meet Anchor, Anchor meet Bed. In friendships I was desperate to nurture yet scared to, so I didn’t have them really,
I simply became a regular visitor to the void.
I got answers and there was no void, I learned in late 2014. However, I decided to take myself back about a year ago.
December 4th 2016 was the beginning of my training, I was going to invert myself out of this version of me I had become. I was no longer identifying with the avoidant person I had to be to survive what life had given me.
I no longer wanted to drag along the sadness that filled me, I no longer wanted to feel fatigued pain of trauma bolder weight on my buckling shoulders. Hearing from Noelle that my repressed emotions was triggering my chronic pain illness was enough to get me going on that path.
Taking in a new perspective took me to revival. Learned Helplessness was not my reality. And a year later, it is a process that is so enriching, I take back the times I cried about it being a chore. “Yeah, this is my future. This is my past.” Layers were peeled back and an old mummy coughed out the dust of left over poison, and heaved for love. Reality was rewritten by Actuality. I was reborn everyday and every night, one way or another. And this is my truth.
I have come to my truth, and it does set you free. But now it’s turn to set myself free. This is me speaking out. I have had pain, I have had desolation, I have been so lost I did not know which way was out. This is something I will not be ashamed about, because the better part of that truth, is that deliverance is real.
I’ve had the answers for anyone but I could not gain the strength to fight for myself, I would hate myself as I watched people who had more strength in their pinky that I could ever externalize. Of course that was not the truth either, I was strong but not towards the obstacles that I was not worthy of surpassing.
Only when I could receive love for myself to deflect that inner voice of shame I could witness the miracle that is my survival, I was strong. I had passed the test. Now it’s time to not let the pain be in vain.
I want to create, as I dance along to guilty pleasures on a Sunday Morning, having so much fun I nearly damage the kettle because I missed it’s screaming for my attention. I want to be intimate with myself again, not afraid of facing my own emotions and okay with marking my world with my existence.
And fuck it, I want to be unapologetic about it all. Culture would be impregnated with beauty so it could birth the art I can now feel safe to move along with the paint strokes. Spirituality and science has awakened me with true understanding so I can be free in being me. Placing myself on this blog I am being active in being me.
Active.
That is the choice word for me for a while. Pain has to be mourned, not slipped through the cracks of the panels of splintering wood. Go in, to let it out. Mirrors is what we perceive of ourselves, a reflection of our struggles at time, but certainly not what is to define our spirit.
Photographs is how the world defines us, it overrules our message with their’s. The realization of that has been awarding, and I’m practicing Actuality. Not the reality that was my past, not the reality that you project onto me. “Yeah, that was my past. This is my future.”
Morrissey once said something along the lines of like.. I do maintain that if your hair is wrong, your entire life is wrong.
*Jalen*
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