Becoming, Lucy

Clarity is a new concept to me.

Maybe new isn’t the way to describe it but I registered it for the first time the other day,

Things I had been worried about for quite sometime, something I was certain was giving me grey hairs – I gained clarity on. I didn’t realise I had gained clarity until I acted and then felt this relief.

I registered my brain chemistry has changed. And I felt the impact. I felt myself able to make a decision and know it was exactly the right one. That what I was doing was right. That I was making the right decision.

All sounds like bullshit though I’ll be honest.

No. Not bullshit. I just don’t know why I’m talking about it. Maybe so I can document the moment that I found comfort in my own conscience, that I knew what I was doing.

I’m not sure why I just called bullshit on myself in the first ten sentences.

It’s not that clarity is bullshit. It’s not even what I was saying is bullshit. I have had clarity recently.

It just feels wrong. I haven’t earned it. I am undeserving of it. I should now go out of my way to find more problems so I no longer feel changed.

My brain chemistry has changed and my nervous system thinks I’m under attack. Or maybe it’s the other way around. I don’t know which way it is. I just know I feel underserving of clarity. Of changing. Of entering this new chapter where I shed old skin.

Am I shedding old skin though? Or am I forever holding onto these things?

Is that what the patterns on a butterfly are? Scars? Scars that make them beautiful? They wear them proudly. Show them off proudly.

Beautiful things don’t carry beauty just because they have scars though. Structures change. They are built. Caterpillars become beautiful butterflies because they suffered through metamorphosis and did not allow the suffering to decide what they would become.

Maybe I am emerging.

Or maybe that’s just a hopeful part of me. Maybe that’s just me wishing I’ll have this big transformation and be able to bear my scars proudly. Rather than hide behind masks of who I think people want me to be.

I don’t want to keep hiding behind masks.

I want to let all my trauma seep out of me onto the floor. I want people to see the pain they caused. I want it to flood the ground they walk on. I want to let the rivers bleed red with my pain.

That’s what I want. People to truly see the pain I carry. I’m angry that no one sees it. That to everyone, I’m just another depressed, helpless human.

Well. I am not.

I am a woman whose blood is written in stories of trauma. They are woven into my very essence. I want my blood to paint the ground as I release my trauma. I want the evidence to show.

I want my blood to seep slow and constant out of my veins, to pool at my feet as I stand there facing everyone who has ever looked at me, ever been curious about me.

My blood pools then begins to flow towards them in steady streams. The blood is deep red how it should be. But as more gathers, as the streams gain momentum and thickness – words seem to be written into the current of the red river.

Words that speak of my trauma. Words that spill my story to everyone. I can see their horror form. I can see them feeling my pain.

I will not cry. I will stand there, letting my blood pour and watch. They do not deserve to feel my suffering. But they will learn what it is like to feel this way.

I will change their perspective.

And thanks to absolutely no one else, I have shifted. I have transformed. I am who I am because of my trauma. I am still fucking nice. I am still a decent human being.

Fuck all of them that etched scars into my skin and altered my DNA.

I’ve sat for five minutes and now I’m not sure what to do with the fact that I’ve suddenly felt anger like that and now it’s gone. Just note it and move on?

“Great. We’ve released something else, now go do something mundane. Drink your coffee.”

My brain wants to sit and dissect it. I want to analyse why that happened, where it came from. I want to understand it until it’s as clear as counting to ten.

But I’m not sure where to begin. I mean I know I don’t have to dissect it but I’d love to understand it.

Maybe it’s just a purging of all the anger I’ve never allowed myself to feel.

If you could see me right now, you’d laugh at how much I’m huffing and puffing. I was talking about clarity and then I ended up ranting about blood and butterflies. Maybe next time I’ll start talking about how the moon and stars are also a picture of my suffering. Maybe anything is a picture of my suffering if I let it be.