There is this feeling, I don’t really know how it would be described. It’s that lump in the back of your throat that just hurts. Like, you aren’t quite sure why you feel like you might cry, but all of the sudden. There is the lump.
Sometimes, I look around, at my family, my friends, my choices, and I get the lump. I think that addressing the lump is about addressing how I got here. Ever look around and think, how did I get here?
We make choices, good or bad or indifferent and we must stand by the choices we make. OR we can pretend they don’t exist, but they do and always will. We can make additions to our choices, or we can try to alter what we have done but the point is, we have already made the choices.
The lump I believe, is the choices. We can’t get rid of the choices, ergo, the lump stays. I have made many choices I don’t agree with, but I wouldn’t want to get rid of them. Can you make a list of your choices, a full list, and stare at it and get past the lump?
Go. Ahead. And. Try.
Tonight I told the truth. The whole truth and it was terrifying. I feel like a new person, a new and imperfectly perfect person. I said all the ugly nasty things floating around my head and it’s wonderful. I feel great. I am happy and content. No, everything is not perfect and nothing will ever go back to what it was, but that’s okay. The world won’t end and neither will I. It’s time to start my next chapter. No more talking about it, more doing it. The tree will keep blossoming, the wind will keep blowing and I will keep living. The world is mine and now I’ll seize it. In the honest way.
You say you want access to the thoughts running through my pretty little head.
What happens when you can’t stomach them?
When they fill you with shame, hatred, lust?
Where did your faith in pretty girls go?
Peek on in, do you like what you see?
I’m a whore, a liar, a cheat
I’m a con artist, a chameleon
I am not real.
Tell me, are you still there?
Shall I continue?
How many men have I trapped, seduced, set aside?
How many nights did we sip scotch while your wife was away?
I fucked you, and I ate your soul. I am your desire.
So see? You told me you wanted access to my pretty little thoughts, in my pretty little head.
How fucking pretty am I now?
My dark little girl
your slate eyes level me.
Those cruel thoughts that swim about.
I drown in your loathing.
I swim in your desire.
We are the unmentionable.
The wicked laugh, the harsh tongue.
Far too removed to love-Far too close to hate.
For we are what they think of.
The ones who prey in the black of night.
So silence all
Cry a noiseless cry.
Level me with your gaze.
I heard once, that it is easier to write an honest response than to say one aloud. I agree with this statement. I can write about all my future plans till my fingers bleed, but I will sit at the table and lie my agreement till I am blue in the face. I have really been using this writing platform to come clean about my lies and indiscretions but now I need to get my ass in motion and figure out what the fuck I am doing. Here are some truths:
I still smoke cigarettes
I am doing mediocre in school
I am filling out applications to schools I will never go to
I am ready to drop out of college and live under a rock
I might run away with a friend
My mom thinks I am a good daughter
Also, for as smart as I may be, I have a 48.5 in math…
I honestly have absolutely no idea what I am doing at the moment. It is exhilarating and absolutely terrifying.
If someone out there wants to adopt a moody wannabe writer- I am ready to make some moves.
There is a girl I used to know, but she vanished in a plume of ashen cigarette smoke. I loved this girl, she was funny and loving and happy. I guess I didn’t know much about her in the end. What i do know, is that she is gone but I will find her. Her vanishing act took place about a year ago, she was replaced with a twisted doppelganger. The only resemblance was bitten down fingernails and dark eyebrows. All other attributes had morphed into an altogether darker being. Knotted hair, dead eyes and hollow cheekbones. A stick figure full of jagged edges replaced the girl I once knew. She may never come back, but I loathe this version. The scent of tobacco and dishonesty linger in every room she travels through. Her presence, once welcomed now garners wary and worried looks and hushed tones.
What happened to her? the demons won. Sometimes, early in the morning, when I watch her swipe mascara onto her jet black eyelashes I catch a glimpse of who she used to be. Though she disappears as quickly as she came and I wonder how I can get her back. This mystery girl reminds me strongly of a chameleon, turning whatever hue the situation dictates. Among her crowd, she is wild, magnetic, yet almost dangerous. Gray smoke curls around each lie she tells, because there is no truth. I see her other times in certain classes, letting the old self shine through. The literary genius-ready with each answer. God I want her back. I follow her as closely as possible, cringing and admiring her brass exchanges. When did she start hating herself so much?
She goes home and channels her old self as best as possible; though it is a bit like wearing too small clothes. The feeling is off. She makes nice with the family she used to adore. Now, they are just more strangers to be civil with. I watch as she interacts with the mother she used to call her friend. Each sentence they utter is a cautionary volley, seeing which will be set off first. The mother utterly wary of this daughter 2.0, limits all freedoms in an attempt to find the girl she once knew. The brother who used to admire her, has lost all respect and sadly wonders where his sister went. He shakes his head, disgusted. I watch this girl-she does not care.
She is angry. Why? Why is she so angry? I can feel her blood boiling, I can feel the control slipping away. Who is she? why is she so lost. Anger is best channeled through treachery and bodily exchanges. The urge to kill, becomes the urge to fuck. Gone are the days of young boys and fruitless crushes. This is a time of charm and debauchery. She becomes a seducer. A serpent stopping at nothing. For whom she wants, she has. God, who is she? What is she? A whore? Femme Fatale? A victim? None, she is the girl I once knew.
The whole world spins on one axis, yet we each have our own personal axis. Whether that may be another person, a job, or a hobby; if that were to vanish, then what? See that’s the million dollar question, there is no “then what”! I was so scared to let go of my stories, my fictional life. I was scared that when I let them go, I would no longer have any sort of identity. In the end, I guess my life revolved around my story telling. The truth of it is, I am just your run of the mill kid trying to figure out what the fuck to do. I was so scared of being ordinary, of blending in, of getting swept away in the normalcy of daily life. Yet, here is the deal: It is not a crime to belong. I worked so hard to make myself an outsider but when push came to shove, I just wanted to be on the inside. I guess the point is, without my stories, my fictional life, my world still keeps spinning.
Life is nothing but a series of missteps and miscommunication, throw in a few good moments and some fantastic characters and bam, it’s noteworthy. I myself have become one of these fantastic characters over the years, although the word may actually at this point be caricature. Ya know? Those highly distorted but probably frighteningly accurate representations of the average Joe. Yep I am one of those. My name is Emily, but depending upon who you ask, I am eight thousand different “Emily”‘s. Awhile ago, my mother finally decided it was about damn time to call my bullshit and tell me that I need to fix my compulsive lying issue. (See, now you are gonna second guess the whole blog; because when does a compulsive liar tell the truth?) I was utterly indignant, stuck my nose in the air and accused her of being nosy and over protective. I secretly wished, every day that she would just leave me alone; let me travel, let me drop out of school, just be my very own person. (Ironic because there are so many versions of me.)
Unfortunately, this is not my current situation.
A couple days ago, after a few months of smooth sailing and secret resentment she drops the BOMB. Nope, those aren’t just calcifications of breast tissue it’s cancer! Ta Da, that is a magic trick because just like that I for once felt utterly responsible for something. Shit, all of my wishful resentment has caused cancer. This is my fault for wanting to be left alone, is it too late to pick back up my Catholic faith? Anyway I know realistically that the cancer is not my fault but I have also realized that if I am to be fully independent, I most likely can’t handle it. So karma is a bitch right?
Sincerely, Emily the Liar.
Often, as writers we try to encompass our audience into the story, or poem or whatever it is we may be writing. On this occasion, this post is purely about me. Emily Marie, and my fucked up quest for validation.
My whole life has been one masochistic quest for validation and acceptance. From group to group, my outfits changed, my persona changed, my stories changed, my life and attitude changed. Now, some of these changes have been hugely beneficial, they have created who I am today (although I still have no idea who that is) for good and definitely for bad. On a larger note, this changes have just created chaos and puzzlement for those around me. Those, who have stuck around long enough to witness my changes. From group to group the want to fit in has been so tangible it’s like a ticket that says: Congratulations you finally fit in!. Clearly, that ticket never appeared. Chasing acceptance and validation is chasing an elusive ghost. Glimpses here and there but nothing solid. Solidarity is something I have sought out since I can remember though I am probably the least solid person I or anyone else, has ever known.
In the past few months, my life has been in utter upheaval and I have been really trying to dig deep and find who I am. Which by the way is no easy feat. I will say, I am working on validating myself. Maybe one day, I’ll create a post detailing the nitty gritty liaisons and encounters I found myself ensnared in, on my question for validation.
I’ve mentioned the idea of lying before now but thing is, I am the one doing the lying. I am the one being sneaky and underhanded. I am the one who holds all the cards, its a royal flush baby. My lies are pure gold and they get gobbled up like PEZ. Sometimes we lie to protect, sometimes to help ourselves and other times just to bullshit. The problem is, the liar doesn’t really feel the sting until they are the ones being lied to.
Ya know, I was going to make this hypothetical but then I realized, shit that is just one more misguided truth. Here is the deal: My boyfriend lied, big time. This isn’t about sympathy or calling him a bastard, because he isn’t. He just lied and I of all people, get that. We have been together for awhile now and in recent conversation I said “hey babe your birthday is soon you will be 29.” and there was a pause, I stand corrected, there was THE pause. So he tipped his head and kind of just looked at me, followed by “Well, actually I will be 34…” Oh boy. There goes the wind, right out of my sails. Good Lord Almighty, I was creeped out to the umpteenth degree. He rushed on to to say he didn’t want me to see him differently, and yada yada yada. I just kept walking, tuning him out and calculating the age difference in my head, which mind you, had just jumped substantially.
All in all, I was hurt and angered that he had blatantly lied to my face, how could he hide something so large? What else was he hiding? If he genuinely cared about me, where was the honesty? These questions looped through my head like a perverse soundtrack. Eventually I shook off the weird vibes looked at this man and knew I could forgive him and move on. But the kicker is this: for once in my life I was able to step out of my own selfish shoes and look in on how the people around me felt.
Lying hurts, it hurts to be lied to. It is deceptive and sneaky and sometimes we don’t even catch ourselves doing it. I certainly have been known to fabricate things, that quite honestly didn’t even need the touch-up. So karma is a bitch, poetic justice even. I guess my point is, we don’t fully understand the ways in which we hurt others, until we get hurt.