a Soul Project

archival : there is absolutely no better way of saying it to you :

As this heart has grown it's cracked and worn,
Worn down to the bruises and scars put there
by the mother,
by the father,
by the family.
It never had the chance to choose.
This woman protects this heart with her life,
sacrificing life and love and lust
to cradle within her the one precious piece of humanity that exists:
the spirit.
This little girl locked her spirit away from
the mother,
the father,
and the family that she was never good enough for.
And she grew up blaming herself for her self, because
the mother told her she was the problem,
the father loved her more than life, but still left,
and the family couldn't suffer her because
she wasn't made from the same cookie-cutter shapes it required.
And this little girl was only three,
was only four five six seven eight nine ten and eleven
when the mother beat her with whipping words
that lashed the heart and twisted the mind,
so that this little girl thought she was better off dead.
And she'd crawl back to the mother to make it right,
because the mother gave her life and she loved the mother anyway,
and the mother would turn on the whipping words
again and again
until with one final viscous blow
the mother would leave.
And the little girl would stand in front of the window of her room
and wonder if the mother was coming back,
would fear the greatest of fears.
She would, eventually and always, blame herself for the mother leaving,
and what if the mother died?
She would then have killed the mother and then she would be alone and she would die.
She battled guilt and she feared for her survival.
And she was three four five six seven eight nine ten and eleven
and each time the mother returned the next morning
and the little girl wept and apologized for everything,
cowered before the mother
because without the mother she would surely die.

And through it all,
the father loved her.
The father could see the mother for the poison she was
because she had poisoned him for ten years.
And this little girl wasn't solely like her mother,
she was so very much her father's daughter,
and so they saw each other for the
compassionate souls they were.
And the father was the little girl's only escape from
the mother that fostered self-loathing.
The little girl could be herself around the father,
could be an individual,
could be a kid,
could laugh and play and create and live and breathe
and take each breath without fear of whipping words and venomous voice.

But this little girl only saw the father a few days a week,
and at her seventh year she lost his presence to another state.
At seven years old the father told her the was leaving,
with no concrete explanation but to leave,
and he asked her what she felt about it.
And because she loved the father more than anything,
a daughter's love,
she told him that she would support anything he needed,
even if it meant he'd have to go.
And he left her.
He left her alone with the mother,
and because of the beaten creature she was,
she blamed him leaving on herself
just like every time the mother left.

At seven, eight, nine, ten and eleven
this little girl began to slowly deteriorate.
She had friends but she never truly connected with them
because they were shallow youngsters that played evil,
manipulative games with one another.
And though childhood is mostly innocent
she was given little opportunity to see or experience it so.
And so she began to hope and wait within herself
for someone that wouldn't leave her,
that would love her for who she was,
and who could help soothe away the cuts and scars
laid down by the mother's torture,
by assuring her she was beautiful and kind after all
and that her thoughts and feelings were valid.
A friend,
a companion,
maybe even a lover.
Anyone, please come.
Please come before I die,
this little girl would think.

At fifteen she met someone she thought she could trust,
and they made promises to each other and thought they knew what love was,
but they were very young.
And this age is when you learn all the follies of love and lust
through ardorous mistakes with eager young love.
And after a time and after much triumph and heartache,
they went separate ways.
Perhaps if the girl hadn't held her hopes so high because of
the mother,
the father,
and the family,
she may not have gotten so hurt.
But this breakup triggered a madness within the girl
that had been building her whole life.
She broke.
She had let this person into her heart,
let him take hold of its vulnerable spaces,
and he had betrayed her trust by ripping it out and tearing it to shreds,
going back on all the things he had assured her of.
The experience temporarily ruined her hope in humanity, to find
a friend,
a companion,
or a lover
that wouldn't leave,
that wouldn't tell you they cared for you
only to renege it all later.

At sixteen the little girl reared her head
and wreaked inner and outer havoc on herself,
and the girl went through treatment and medication
because she was a threat to herself,
because she was on a roller coaster of mood swings uncontrollable by sheer self,
because she was a "bipolar" mess that could no longer function.

And because at the core of it,
in her soul, she was strong;
because of this she realized she would never rest in trying to better herself.
She would not let the mother beat her with words and raised voice.
She would tell the father what she needed.
She would find and embrace her own identity
irregardless of what the family would say she should become.
She was done letting
the mother,
the father,
and the family
bring her to submission.

She made changes in her life.
She was honest with herself
and became steadfast in being honest with others.
She embraced the little girl within
that never had a chance to emotionally flourish,
and found her,
a soul pure of heart and intention,
empatheitc and caring,
bursting with ambition to connect with and care for people,
and loyal beyond reason.
The amazement at finding such a person underneath
the rubble of her destroyed heart was profound.
She works EVERY DAY to clean up the wreckage
of a heart and self-esteem damaged in childhood.
But healing comes slowly,
as damage is far more quickly made than restored.
So she knows this about herself.
She seeks consciousness of her own tendencies
and she knows what she is and is not yet capable of.
And in this knowing,
she knows that her heart is still firmly shy to
let anyone in deeper than cordial association
because the people she was supposed to
from birth
be able to trust the most...
the mother,
the father,
and the family...
did the most damage.

And so today,
she warns anyone that gets too close.
she warns them that she has baggage not yet unpacked and sorted through,
and that much of her heart is still a big unorganized mess.
She warns those that try to enter her heart,
her inner heart,
that she isn't ready to get hurt again just yet.
She knows everyone has their own issues to deal with,
and so she does not search for anyone to take care of her healing heart
as she is strong and able to do it herself,
and it is no one else's responsibility.

But this little girl is now a woman,
and the people she meets are now also grown up.
And this woman has begun to and will forever
meet more and more individuals
capable of minding each other's heart sores,
mature enough to heed warnings of fragility,
accept the challenge,
and tread lovingly.

Because that is what love is.
Love is forgiveness.
Can you forgive me my inadequacies if you know I'm working on them?

Love is honesty.
Can you be honest with me and communicate
so that I don't have to guess how you feel and what you need?
Can you tell me only what is real to you
and not just false, kind words for the sake of kind words?

And because love is many, many infinite number of things,
this woman will tell you some of what love is to her.

Love is screwing up but saying, "I want to fix that."
Love is sometimes sacrificing how shitty you feel
to be there for someone you love,
because you can trust they'll be there in the same way for you.
Love is hearing how you make someone feel, good or bad,
and absorbing its meaning rather than deflecting it back.
Love is trying to be patient so that you don't make messes unduly.
Love is trying not to worry someone.
Love is accepting when someone screws up and loving them anyway,
because they probably feel like crap about it already.
Love is not closing yourself off when you've opened up to the people you love,
and if you do out of habit,
letting them remind you to come back out of your shell.

We as humans are capable of loving many people on many different levels.
Whether you love
a friend,
a companion,
or a lover,
you establish certain levels
as you decide to grow deeper in this human love.

So I ask you.
Based on the words we have spoken,
the cautionary reminders along the way,
and the openness we BOTH said we wanted,
to tell me,
honestly and without fear,
down in your core, your soul...

What do you feel for me, really?

Because your sweet words were taken to heart.
Were they real?
If they were not real, I can handle that.
If you knowingly or unknowingly lied to me,
I can handle that.

But if you meant all you said to me,
please let me know of that reality.
And if it is true then I ask you to stop being afraid of your love,
and to embrace it.
There is nothing here to hold you down,
only to be there with you while we all grow into better people.