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.