Not everyone can feel things as deeply as you. Most people, their feelings are … bland, tasteless. They’ll never understand what it’s like to read a poem and feel almost like they’re flying, or to see a bleeding fish and feel grief that shatters their heart…
by Juliann Garey, Too Bright to Hear Too Loud to See (via unmaiden)
When you’re four you make a sandcastle in your sand box at day care and they tell you ‘wow, oh wow, that’s the best sand castle I’ve ever seen’. And something inside you clicks. You’re young- you’re so young but even your youngest you knows that it feels good when someone tells you ‘you’re the best’.
When you’re eight you win your spelling bee. P-e-n-u-l-t-i-m-a-t-e. Your teacher hands you a blue ribbon and although you spelled the word correctly, you have no idea what it means, how much you would hate to have it apply to you.
When you’re 12 your best friend kisses a boy behind the bleachers at school. And when she tells you about how he tasted like choc mint slice and gob stoppers you wonder why you aren’t really paying attention. You haven’t kissed a boy yet and you don’t until you’re 16.
When you’re 16 you kiss a boy- you kiss many boys, and they don’t taste like mint or gob stoppers. It doesn’t feel how you’re friend said it would. And this experience- this poking and prodding of tongues, this clanging of teeth like prisoners fists against the bars of goal cell- this is all new to you. But not to the boys. Not to your friends. And you wish you were eight again- when spelling was the hardest thing you had to do.
When you’re 20 you start skipping college. You’re taking advanced classes in biology but the only thing you care about is finding another sand box that you can dominate. Another spelling test you can win. You want to be 12 again and be the first to kiss a boy so then at 16 you don’t feel so confused when he bites your lip at parties. When you were young everyone praised you, you were the best- at something- at many things. When did that stop? When did you see the way another works and decide, as a result, you were broken? That you were ‘doing it wrong’ ? That to fit in you had to dig inside and change pieces of yourself to match the shiny cogs others so perfectly sported. Honey, when you were you, you were perfect- and that four year old you was the best in the sand box. And she had no worries. No cares. You’re 20 and you’re in college and you have school loans, an odd relationship with food and you don’t really speak to your parents. All you want is for someone to tell you ‘you’re the best’ ‘you are good enough’ And I’m looking at you, worn out, eyes constantly scanning the room for proof you don’t belong, and I’m telling you, baby, you ARE good enough. You have always been good enough and the moment you start doubting that, the moment you start sending away pieces of yourself like burning evidence of a past lover, that’s when you lose yourself…that’s when you lose.