nothing changes

At this place, I find that I have a lot of time to think. A lot of time to write down my feelings, a thing that I've found very helpful, made even easier with the wonderful technology I've access to. What a miracle all this is, that I've survived, that I sit here typing all this out, that I have people generous enough to give me opportunities I really don't deserve.

I suppose that it's different when you have some kind of common ground. It isn't often that I get the chance to speak for myself. It's irrational, but sometimes I just feel the air grow cold around me when I open my mouth. The mood shatters, and reasonable or not the words, the thoughts behind them, scatter into dust. Emotions scramble, too. What once were neutral glances feel like knives pressed to my skin, threatening to pierce if I say another awkward, stumbling word. Nobody cares. You shouldn't force them to care.

It isn't right. Somewhere in my head I know it isn't true. It's terrible of me to accuse them of this kind of cruelty after they've gone so far out of their way. But that's how it feels.

If anything, it's that disrespect that they would hate me for.

Underneath all my anxiety, I think they understand. It's hard to believe sometimes that they can't read my mind, but at the same time, they get it. People weren't meant to survive what we have. It gets into our heads, drags us into a dream where we scream and scream but no sound comes out. We lost a little bit of ourselves in there, all of us, whether we want to admit it or not.

No... It isn't right to say that we're the only ones that know what this is like.

"Nothing ever changes."

Years ago I heard those words every day. The face that spoke them died long ago, both in real life and in my memories. The only thing that remains is the bitter voice, hardened by tobacco smoke, alcohol, never-ending stress. I'd done research on the time I'd grown up, looked at the situation from the outside. I was there, too. I walked those streets, saw the posters that now only exist as images on my computer screens. I touched the statues that now had their heads yanked off.

Years and years at the mercy of some massive entity, terrible and powerful, impressive and inspiring. Capable of the depths of cruelty and the heights of wonder. Existing only as a small accessory to their whims, not even a footnote in the wide, sweeping, world-changing tales that they would tell.

Was I describing myself or my father?

I've met other people since then, too. On a smaller scale, the pattern would repeat again. Laid prone and helpless by those they called parents and lovers, taking their blows. My face would sting as I talked to them, even though I had to really concentrate to remember why. I'm sure they had good times. They had reasons why they stayed. They tried to make sense of the madness, holding on to what beauty they could. But every one of them bore the scars of their traps.

Nothing ever changes. And even though I lay at the intersection of these events, that remains true.

Every one of us, the Lost, the abused, the oppressed, bear some mark of what we've survived. For us, it's almost comical. Some whimsical, fairy tale visage that we've taken on. But the meaning is the same, whether it's a tiny flame in your chest or a body damaged by years of chemical escapism. Wounds, scabbed over, inflicted by something on the outside or by oneself.

More frightening is when you let it more than skin deep. When you truly internalize the very things that have hurt you. It burns you worse than any blow. When you come to your senses and realize that, in the eyes of another, you have become the beast you cowered in fear from. For us, the metaphor is literal. We literally have the magic coursing through our veins, and we too must be careful to not become the thing that held us trapped.

But you know what else doesn't change? For most of us, at least.

Our humanity. The drive to keep going and survive. Every single one of us overcame the impossible. We held on hope, even after being beaten down, treated like less than nothing. Deep down, we all felt that we had worth. That we deserved better, that somewhere, we would find value, and that someone would value us. The world needed us back.

Actually believing that when you have the time and energy to reflect is a different matter. But there's something to be said about the strength of the human spirit, the desire to defy fate and change the ending, that we made it back in the first place.

That most anything is survivable.

This is the most I have written in a long time. I can't help but feel a little silly. After all, what does a simple hairdresser need with all these thoughts? All I'm doing is stating the obvious. Everyone else probably feels the same way, and could say it cleaner. Maybe I'm just enjoying my newfound mastery of this language. But it feels good, either way, to get all this off my chest.

I'm going to go repay some of my debts now. It's the least I can do.