Do I hate myself? No, I don’t hate myself- I love myself but I used to despise myself with the all mighty heart & soul. I thought I didn’t meet beauty standards and I mentally felt retarded because I’ve been highly sensitive, moody, introverted and scarred due to neglect and emotional abuse which occurred throughout my existence. I was disgusted with the size of my body, uneven colour of my skin, stretchmarks, loose skin, a big bum and funny teeth. I went through it all – bullying, an eating disorder, anxiety, depression and panic attacks….
Remember, negative childhood doesn’t guarantee you unhappy life, same with the stable nest- it doesn’t protect you from the bad in the world. It depends on us- humans.
It took me a long while to realise it. I blamed everyone but me because I was convinced that my existence was pitiful and cursed. What I didn’t notice was that I was drawn to negative influences. I can compare it to standing in the middle of the motorway and waiting for being hit by a truck. When I decided to stay away from spiteful parasites and put my well-being on the first place things began to change for better.
Nature helped me a lot together with active meditation. Thich Nhat Hanh has been my mentor. He directed me (through his books) towards the path of mentally sober reality which needs to be challenged and constantly stimulated. The mentally sober reality consist of better, neutral and worse experiences residing in our Universe. It solely depends on us of how we utilize them.
I’ve met good souls including my partner who supports me and understands me. He loves my good sides, emotional quirks and physical appearance – He loves me simply for who I am. Our relationship is based on mutual respect and honesty. He is my life partner whom I love for his true and real self. We are both equal.
I still find myself going through phases of self- pity and despair- especially when I have few obstacles to deal with but I have a better control over it as I know it has been my coping mechanism from as long I can remember. Nobody is perfect 🙂
I’m proud of who I am today and so you should be. We all complex, different and unique.
Don’t Give Up – It comes, it goes, sometimes its worse than other times but at the end of the day y… – http://wp.me/p7zvtk-2R
My soul has been shot 16666666666666666666666 times. The assassin Fate has used bullets of life. It made me resilient and strong with an impending sense of mortality.
This quote means much to me, it says that we wouldn’t be who we are without those not always pleasant experiences we have been through. We learn from them constantly improving ourselves to become better human creatures.
“There are no beautiful surfaces without terrible depth.”
The wine made of fermented grapes with a note of decadence tastes good with a bittersweet chunk of ice cold sorrow. I’m sipping the elixir of sadness while sitting at the oblong charcoal table waiting for the purple skulls to arrive. Purple skulls have one decaying body and 6 heads multiplying by 666. Each of them represents a painful experience and chaos, there is one head among them sticking out bravely, it’s made of a crimson crystal clear material which was dug from the deepest reachable point of the earth therefore it is indestructible. The skull in the middle holds all the positivity and decent memories which has taken place while stomping on the ground. An optimist would say- the unstained beauty of life. I stand up impatiently waiting for my friend to arrive, bored, I reach for a knife and tear into pieces holy books I have been collecting over the years in my strenuous attempt to find a golden key to happiness. They belong to multiple flocks. I tear them apart, shredding them into thin rumpled pieces, I do in a rush to save myself more time to enjoy the last moments of self- pity before the arrival of my dear friend. I hear repetitive knocking at the massive metal door of my ivory suffocated grey concrete shed in the middle of the forest which never has been found or discovered. There are trees, bushes and overgrown weed in the meadow, my so called temple is in the middle of the swamp, so it’s well protected and separated from the rest of the area. I rush to open the door, the force radiating from the skulls hits me, I can’t comprehend it as its of unknown source but I fully embrace it. I leave my concrete shelter and occasionally appear among other human beings with my wisdom made of pieces of life experiences.
I’m sowing my brain with the rusted needle as it has been ripped to shreds. I’m unable to open my eyes because I’m scared of what I might see. I still have an image stuck in my head of people spitting at me hateful comments. It’s hard when you don’t resemble the beauty icon with flawless complexion and lengthy lower limbs. I can hear a ripple of laughter running through the surrounding me crowd. I’m scared of dying but at the same time I wish to be gone. The uncertainty of the afterlife is keeping me alive but for how long? I don’t want my dreams to fade into oblivion therefore I pledge to fight my demons until I fall apart from exhaustion.
Simple as it looks… the eye… simplicity, mistery and depth in one capture.
Today, at 6.30am in the morning I heard someone passing by my house, humming a folk tune similar to a lullaby my grandmother used to sing to me when I was little.
The voice of that person was somehow familiar to me yet confusing…. as it sounded like a voice coming from an elderly woman or a ten year old child.
It woke me up, still sleepy and half conscious I tried to make sense of it, believing that it was a dream I listened to it anxiously with a pinch of fear for good one minute,
but then it had been gradually eaten by silence.
What was it???
Was it a nostalgic lucid dream???
Was it a person lost in the rain and gust of wind???
Imagine to be a beautiful chair wrapped in a velvety, silky ribbon surrounded by two other chairs resembling you, and there is a fourth chair not as pretty as you, it has some flaws- its legs have been partially eaten by borers, its top is cracked, moulded and covered in a thick layer of dust.
None of the chairs want to be near that monstrous piece of wood but they are forced to do it so. They despise the fact that something can have defects, or any sort of disfigurement, that is why they don’t waste their time making the existence of the faulty chair burning poignant hell. The cracked furniture puts on a brave face, making an effort to get along with its companions, embracing the whole situation, treating it is as a challenge. As you may have expected, its bravery and so called optimism fades away leaving a blemished chair lonely, unwanted, hurt and unloved. It desperately craves a change but its to exhausted to begin a new and unknown journey, therefore
it commits suicide leaving all of its written notes, thoughts and drawn art behind it.
The three remaining chairs wake up finding pieces of their mate scattered over the attic. They call for its removal, admire its artwork, contemplate for a short while and move on with their pitiful lives trying to find another victim.
It could have ended up differently.