An Inspiration To Us All

Confession:

I want to inspire people.

I have always wanted this in some form or fashion. In some ways, this is why I dance. I want to inspire people to feel. To feel something. I want people to see me dance and feel. I selfishly want to be the reason for their response, the source of their inspiration.

These days, I want my whole life to be an inspiration. An inspiration to others suffering from depression and anxiety, an inspiration to other survivors of abuse and assault, an inspiration to others fighting addiction. I want to be a person who can help, but in order to help, I have to have it all together, don't I? I have to have survived, right? I have to have beaten all of my problems to a pulp in order to help others do the same. Don't I? Don't I have to be perfect?

Because I'm not. I pretended to be for a while, and I did so very well. I didn't hurt myself. I socialized. I fought my anxiety and left my room. I ate three meals a day. I confronted triggers with a careless ease. I had it all together.

But not really. And now I have it even less together. Come February I will not celebrate a one year anniversary of no self-abuse. I walk quickly from class to class in the fear that people will look at me too long. I cry myself to sleep because my memories hurt so much and I feel utterly helpless to do anything about it. I hate myself for being so pitiful, so hypocritical, so needy, so self-righteous.

Me? An inspiration?

More like an example of what NOT to be when you grow up, kids.

I know I don't have to do this by myself. I know I can't. I know that God is the only one who can.

Sometimes it's just so damn hard to accept that. Sometimes it's damn hard to even know how to accept that. I don't doubt Him, and yet I still find myself wandering around hopelessly. I don't know what to do with myself. I feel like I'm desperately trying to stay above water even though I've got on floaties and giant puffy vest. Even though I'm in no danger of sinking, my head still ends up underwater. I'm all upside down and discombobulated and I don't even know how I got that way.

Who doesn't want to be an inspiration to others? And yet who never finds themselves floating on their tummies, staring at the murky depths of the sea?

Sure, you're floating. But you've still got water in your lungs.

I should take up emo poetry.

People tell me I'm too cheerful to be goth. Maybe it's the pink hair. It takes care of being cheerful so I don't have to.

--Dexter

PS. This all sounds really depressing. I'm sorry. You shouldn't have ventured into...

DEXTER'S DEMESNE

*cue dramatic sound effect, i.e. shattering glass, throbbing heart, shotgun blast, etc.*

PPS. I'm experimenting with giving myself a catchy intro to all of my posts (see previous PS).

The Perfect Moment

There is no such thing as a perfect moment, she has learned that much in her short life. However, there are very very good moments. Moments so good that it becomes a sort of fantasy, a dream, a desperate utopia that she can never again reach. Those moments become idolized in her mind, so that eventually they do become perfect moments, because she has ceased to remember the imperfections.

She’d gotten Star Wars mugs, one with Han Solo and Chewbacca and another with Greedo and Boba Fett. She didn’t want to use the mugs at first because they were special, and she wanted to save the first time for a special occasion. The special occasion ended up being the next day. She chose Han Solo because he’s her favorite, and she made the hot chocolate with milk instead of water because she wanted it to be perfect. She curled up with her hot chocolate and watched Spider-Man cartoons.

The hot chocolate was not perfect. It was delicious, certainly, but it had many faults. It was not as rich and creamy as her imagination had told her, and it was somewhere between lukewarm and hot. Still, it came from a Han Solo mug and she gulped it before it got too cold, enjoying every minute of it and knowing that it was not perfect.

A few hours later she struggles with the homework that is due the following morning, trying to make herself do it and remember it and master it. But all she wants is to rest, to put her head down for a minute or a year or an eternity. She wants to be done with everything. With school, with life. She wants to curl up under thick blankets and never wake up again. She finds herself daydreaming about Han Solo mugs of hot chocolate, and she wishes with all her heart that she was in that moment again, blissfully sipping the perfect cup of hot cocoa.

She just wants another perfect moment.