Peas and Acid

Fairytales aren’t real, and yet we each have a story to tell. Prince Charming might not exist, but I certainly do. And I have been vigorously trudging myself through this life in search of adventure and love. I’ve found a little of both.

Some days, I feel like Alice in Wonderland. Like I have been drinking tea, laced with acid, and even though I can’t find my way home, I find happiness inside my own hallucinations.

Once in a great while, I have moments where I feel like Cinderella at the ball. Those moments are rare and fleeting… but when they arrive, all the other moments become worthy. I’ve never fallen in love at a ball before, but I have fucked a few guys who were way out of my league. And that is pretty much the same thing.

Today, I feel like the princess and the pea. I can’t get comfortable. I can’t sleep at night, because I constantly feel the vicious prodding of an inconvenient truth, buried deep beneath the layers of my bed. My bed used to be such a precious sanctuary, but it hurts just to lay in it now.

Four inches of tempurpedic memory foam lay across my pillow topped mattress. All this layered with the softest polar fleece sheets I could find, and still I feel like a knife is piercing through the middle of my back. Maybe it’s an emotional pain, a nerve tingling metaphor to represent all of the people who have betrayed me. Maybe it’s just a fucking kidney stone. I don’t know.

What we all need to know about the princess and the pea, is that she isn’t some spoiled, ungrateful bitch. Maybe she really was in pain. Maybe she just felt things too deeply. Maybe she needed seventeen layers of padding to feel safe from the harsh world she tried to block out every night, as she laid her head on her pillow.

Sadly, no matter how she tossed and turned, she could still feel the uncomfortable pinch of the pea buried deep beneath her attempted protection from it’s penetration. Whoever planted the pea, surely had no idea of it’s magnitude. They could never understand that the actual size of the tiny pea didn’t hurt her nearly as much as the heartache of knowing that someone would deliberately plant that pea in her bed. The idea that someone would go out of their own way, simply for the purpose of her discomfort, was a painful reality that haunted the princess and manifested into agonizing back pain. The princess was most definitely an empath, too sensitive for her own good.

The senses are a funny thing. Sometimes I bleed from happiness, always falling so madly in love with the cactus versions of people. I’ve tricked myself into believing that I need to feel pain in order to feel real. And the more I venture down this rabbit hole of illusion, the more pain I find myself subconsciously craving.

Yesterday my dad called. We haven’t spoken much lately. He called to tell me that he has been diagnosed with cancer again. He was an agent orange survivor. This will be his third encounter with cancer.

Immediately my mind fell back into high school. I remembered giving a speech about the most important person in my life. He had just been diagnosed for the first time. Halfway through my speech, I lost my voice. I couldn’t speak. My eyes welled up. I ran out of the room, crying because I didn’t know how to process the feelings I had. Yesterday, I sat in silence for a moment as I tried to process the news. Again, I don’t know how I feel…except uncomfortable and sensitive and I am hurting. I feel like I am sleeping on an entire fucking field of peas.


Empath LoveĀ 

In my experience, people in general can be selfish and shitty, even if they do smell like roses. If you ever happen to catch my attention, you should know that I will hold on fiercely to every wicked thing about you. I will polish your dark side like fucking diamonds. I will rearrange the aesthetics of your very essence, pushing back your demons and pulling forward the pillars of light around your soul.  

And you will see yourself through my eyes, and for the first time, you will fall in love with the scenery of your own shadow.  But sadly, you will assume that my perception of you is only the result of my own ignorance, because deep down you believe that you are nothing more than shit. And even though I can only smell the sweet fragrance of roses inside of you, your focus will remain on the stench of everything you think you are hiding from me.  

And you should know that you can’t hide those hideous treasures from me. I have deep caves inside of myself that are darker than anything you could ever imagine. And that gives me the power now, doesn’t it? You will mistake my kindness for weakness. You will feel my graciousness and then believe that you are somehow entitled to it. You will think you have me on lockdown.  You will assume that I must be under your control because all you can feel is the warm light that I have painted you in.

But you can’t win a game that you aren’t familiar with. My eyes, and the way that they see you, are my own. You don’t own my focus, or my power. And as soon as you start to believe that you do, I will set a fire to the garden of roses that I had so graciously planted in your piles of manure. And I will walk away with one last picture of you, seeing you as nothing more than a pile of shit. Your delusion will become mine. And my delusion will fall into your precious little box of big regrets.  

If you ever learn to plant your own damn roses, I would love to stop by and smell them.