Ghostride

When I was younger, I would turn to art as a way to express myself. I didn't always know what I was creating. I didn't always know why, but when I was done, I usually felt some sort of relief. It was usually more cleansing than anything. I would scribble stories, my feelings, drawings. I'd find them later and crumble them into balls, the graphite barely legible over the blue lined paper. In the trash it would go. Reading these pieces made me cringe. I hated being vulnerable. I didn't want anyone to know that they hurt me. Or to know that I was hurting. 

It took me a long time to feel comfortable with my creativity, but I started to feel comfortable expressing myself. To no fault of my own, painting became an outlet, then it became a trigger. I couldn't paint anymore. I had found watercolors the same summer that I started to develop into a woman, and the same year that older men started noticing. I tried time and again to pick up the paintbrushes. To not feel hands on my middle school aged body. But, I always do feel it. I put down the paintbrush. I clean off the paints. I set them to dry. For years at a time. 

A friend of mine told me to write down what music I was listening to while I painted. I started to do that and it helped. I painted canvas of red. Of stormy seas. Melancholy self portraits. I started to write again. I had an inspiring English Literature teacher who encouraged me to keep writing poetry, music, stories, anything. I had a blog, or something close to it, in high school. I was sharing and feeling good about my pieces being out there. I felt vulnerable at first, but I began to feel empowered. Then, someone hacked into my account and re-wrote everything. "Fat bitch" was plastered everywhere. I felt once again that I didn't want to share. That I was a target. I sucked in my stomach and did sit-ups in my room every night. I stopped eating. I got sick and sicker. I felt like I had no outlets anymore.

I kept doing art. I kept drawing, writing, singing. I wasn't consistent, but it was something. I had a lot to express. Too much to try to hold in. I was gifted a journal and I began writing. Keeping my thoughts to myself. Only I will judge me. I shared sometimes. Open mic nights on occasion. I didn't know how to play guitar, but I sang and strummed an out of tune guitar anyway. I read some poems. The ones that made me feel empowered. I decided to let out small streams. 

I thought after so many years that I had learned to love myself. That expressing my grief, my stories, my art, that I would get to a point where I would just... fake it until I really did love myself. I looked around at all my relationships and everything seemed so shallow. Nothing was solid. I wanted it to be, but I was just standing in quicksand. Slowly sinking down. I kept telling myself that if I was in shape, if I was skinny, if I said I loved myself, my shape, that I would feel beautiful. And someone would love me then. I would find the person that would love me once I looked the part. Looked like someone worth loving. 

I wrote and wrote for years. I have put all my thoughts and insecurities right here on display to the public. I had stalkers, haters, and unsupportive people calling me all kinds of horrible things. The privacy of a direct message and "sorry, but"s shielding them from taking responsibility. I stopped being inspired. I was sad. I didn't have as much to write about, since I had already dealt with a number of large chunks of trauma, not to say I am completely healed, just that I overcame so much. I got so far. I started to really love myself. Then I got a message from a stalker, reading me back my horoscope and commenting as if we were meant to be together. Telling me that I was writing directly to them. That I was speaking to them alone. It scared me to my core. I felt like I shouldn't share anymore. I still did, on occasion, but it's less and less. What can I say after I poured my heart out for myself and a stranger is so vein, they think it's for them. Art is created for so many reasons, but I can assure anyone reading this, that I write for me. I write for my peace of mind. There are a few posts that inadvertently positively affected caring people who struggled with similar traumas. They reached out and told me how I spoke words that they didn't know how to express. I write for them, too. I do not write for the vanity of men. 

I get direct messages from men at least 2-3 times a year that rattle my bones. Words that downright scare me. I get messages negging me from men who tell me they want to date me. 

I was angry. 

Furious.

This past month has been living hell. I have dealt with a lot of new responsibilities, my children's shortcomings/mistakes/actions having consequences that make more work for me, family members making me feel unwanted, throwing birthday parties, camping vacations, etc etc etc. More than one person should have to deal with alone. I reach out to my family and I am met with "I'm sorry, I can't help." I am downright frustrated with that answer. I do everything for the people I love. Even just people I care about. I wake up every day and put a smile on my face to the first person who I see. Not me, though. I don't look in the mirror and smile at myself. I put on clothes and look at myself in the mirror. I tug at the bottom of my shirt. I change. I might do it three times, before I say to myself, who cares if you're fat, it's not like anyone wants to date you anyways. I put the shirt back on that I want to wear. I tug at the bottom all day. I sit and see someone glance down at me tugging, unaware if I did it self consciously and drew attention to myself or if they think I'm fat, too. It's just not really polite for people to say it. I think, yeah, they see it too. They see that I'm unlovable. But, I lie and say, "I mean, I think I'm cool, I guess," whenever the fact that I'm a single mom comes up. 

I got overwhelmly reminded in the last few weeks. I am still saying I believe in myself. I still say that I think I'm beautiful. I still say that I love myself. But, am I lying to my true self? Did I ever actually heal that part of me? Did I ever actually love myself? It's all too new for me to realize. I only ever shallowly loved myself when I was in shape. When I was eating healthy. When I fit into a size small. But, why isn't the version of myself who eats junk food and doesn't exercise to lose weight, but chooses to walk 5ks or swim casually just because it clears my head getting loved by me? Why isn't the version of me that has a little muffin top over their 29 regular jeans getting loved by me? Why isn't the version of me that wears loose medium or large shirts getting loved by me? I still love my kids. I still love my friends. My family. My pets. I still love everyone around me, more than they deserve, why don't I love myself like that? I tell my friends that they are beautiful, handsome, funny, and kind. Why don't I love myself like that? Why am I so afraid of rejection that I don't ask someone out, I just send a valentine with a really cryptic message or tell them they are handsome or pleasant and expect them to understand I have a crush on them? What am I so afraid of? Am I afraid that they won't love me either? That just sets me back through all the progress that I had made. It puts me back at the beginning. When I was only shallow with myself. So I only got shallow love in return. I left myself vulnerable. Easily hurt by unkind people. 

But, something is pulling me away.

It's not like before. I need to be myself. I hope I can fully love myself, all of me, at all stages, one day. For now, I can just settle to know what the difference is and try to move on from there. Tomorrow I need to to look in the mirror and smile to ME. I deserve to be loved, too.