A Solutions Manual to Life by Elizabeth J. D. (howl and other poems txt) 📕

Introduction

This page is titled, 'Scenes,' because it's about several 'scenes' in my life. Some deeper things that are a part of me. Some of which I wonder just why and where it came from. Musing on those things, this is what comes out. For now, it's all pretty depressing ^-^; It's not that I'm always upset. Just that at most times, writing is a form of venting for me. I've recently deleted several topics, renamed a few, added to them, or re-written them altogether. Past scenes of my life don't matter anymore and I want that reflected by this page. What once was is no longer - what is now is what matters.


I Hid

Fear.
Pain.
Craze.
Confusion.
Unsure of just what you're afraid of.
Hurt by...what?
Craze caused by the endless wondering. Wondering why; why you feel this.
What? What are you afraid of?
Afraid of not doing your best?
Or afraid that your best isn't enough?
Maybe I'm afraid to try.

Denial.
That's not true.
I'm not afraid.
Of anything....that's stupid.

Yes, you are.
You're afraid to try. Because you're afraid to fail. You're afraid that you're not enough.

Pain.

Caused by one person not thinking you're enough.
You're not pretty enough.
You're not interesting enough.
You bore me.

Hurt by not being liked.
Not being fun.

Change.

You think you need to change yourself.
Become more like other people.
Maybe then...you'll be interesting to people.
People will like you.
You'll be interesting enough to talk to.
Something to pay attention to.
Not just be ignored.

Self-mutilation.
It's what this is like.
You keep hurting yourself...
With your thoughts.

You don't leave yourself alone.

You're still not good enough!
You'll never be good enough!
Nobody wants to talk to you!
Who are you, to talk to people?
Their clothes are more stylish.
They're more confident.
People like them.
People don't like you.
Why even try?

Avoid.

Avoid people's eyes.
They'll see through you.
See that you're needy.
Then they definitely wouldn't talk to you.
Or maybe you don't want them to.
Don't want them to see you.

Hidden.
Hiding yourself...
From yourself.

You tell yourself you're super-special.
That...you're not that shy.
You just don't think you should hang out with this person.
Or that person.
Because they don't dress the same.
Act the same.

Lies.

You lie to yourself.
You don't think you're extra-special.
You don't think you're special at all.


Try.

Try harder.
Look better.

Act.

Act silly.
Act hyper.

Act flat-out stupid.
Just to get
Attention.

Act like you don't care.
Act like you're so great, you don't need to go to people.
They'll come to you.

Act like you're in control.
When your emotions
Are controlling you.

One person.

Can say things.

Hurtful.

But only another

One person

Can let it
Hurt.

Yourself.


Chameleon

He sat in the corner, knees drawn up to his chest, chin resting on them, arms wrapped around to keep himself together. To make him feel safe. This was his alternate reality, his delusional nightmare. He had given in. For a while. Just long enough to make sure that he was still real. Long enough to remember what it felt like to allow a release. To give a sign that something was dying...dead...inside him. What had happened to him? What had made this fake charade become such a permanent thing? The smooth expression he often wore was not something he tried for anymore. It came so naturally, it was as if he was not hiding. It was who he...was. He was becoming something different...The mask was growing into his being. A part of him, overriding his reactions. He didn't have as much of an idea on what was normality. When you were happy, the correct reaction was to smile. To laugh. His brain knew this. His face could do that. The mask was that flexible. He realized how permanent this had become when something occurred and the mask was confused. What was the proper reaction to what she just said? No longer going on instinct to show his emotions, he had to trust his mind to inform the mask of the task it was supposed to be performing. The mask was not modeled to make a person normal. It was engineered to pass for someone who wasn't dying. Not for someone cheerful, or vibrant. Only typical enough to make people believe him when he claimed that nothing was wrong. This was a defense mechanism to repel the outside world from his inner being. What he was not expecting was for the mask to start consuming his being, too. It didn't stop. It wasn't content to merely put on a show for others. It started to put on a show for his being, too. Now, he could not be himself. Though there was no one else in the room, no one else conscious in the house, perhaps in the entire neighborhood - he could not. He could not dance on those instances when he felt so alive. When his insides cried out, he could not scream. He could not make a noise. He would clench his fists and put them to his head. He would clench his jaw until his entire body shook with the effort. His forehead creased and his mouth twisted in mute pain. And then someone would walk in. Almost immediately, his features would relax into that 'wonderful' mask. He would give a polite smile and say hello. Most of the time, the person did not think to ask him if anything was wrong. This was not because those he knew did not care for him. It was because they didn't know. How could they be concerned for something they could not see happening? Even he could not see many traces of the gnashing pain inside him when he looked into a mirror.

His face fooled even himself.

He had become everyone except for who he was.

He had become a chameleon.


Sunset

The sun sinks down, down. It is an orange jewel set aflame, blazing ever more as it falls, yet becoming more centered in its glow. It spreads the fire, casting its warmth of color onto all in its sight, but being sapped of its heat as it gives. Giving, giving...more and more it gives...The green trees take on an amber colored - an unburning fire. It holds it tightly to its leaves, clinging to the dying sun's last gifts. It basks in the glow with a pitying sort of respect. Further the diminishing orb sinks. Faster, now. Faster, faster...A whispered urgency thrills its soul. The sun touches the base of the horizon. It dips into the blue sea; tentatively at first, yet not without setting it also aflame with its touch. The blue sea turns orange, and red, and yellow; a gentle, quiet pool of molten lava. It watches, holding its breath, as its Giver sinks. With one last shudder, the sun sighs its last breath - gives its last bit of warmth - and slips down into the cold beyond, giving its place to the moon. The trees sadly but obediently release their amber glow. The sky holds on, but finally also releases its shine and is subjected instead to the velvety black of night. It is not alone, however, for the sun's last breath had scattered and transformed into legions of stars. A legacy, a reminder, of the light during the darkness. Until it should rise again....


The Skeleton in the Mirror

"Fatty, " the skeletal ghost in them mirror whispered venomously. "Look at you," it demanded accusingly, an echoing quality to its voice. Its voice flew to all four walls of the bedroom. Attaching to them, the whispers became creatures. Skeletal, four-legged, crawling creatures. They all had gorgeous, harsh, critical eyes. Full lips that stretched into monstrous grins over hidden fangs. And of course, a flawless complexion. Heads cocked sickeningly sideways, they crawled overhead. "What a sight," they whispered in a gossipy tone to each other, yet all unison. "What a lovely, healthy girl." Sneering. Mocking. "Look at her. Turning sideways. As if that would make her tinier," the echoing tormentors tittered. "As if it would make her WORTH something," they growled, stopping in their crawl to crouch, cat-like. With a quiet, wickedly ravenous ferocity, they all descended upon the girl. Crawling over her, covering every possible good feature with a thought of a model or friend whose nose was smaller, whose lips were less thin, or whose hair had much more volume. Sick with her seemingly gruesome appearance, the girl turned quickly away from the mirror. The spin was too much for her already-light head. Too much for her starved body. She took a weak step. Shaking. Defeated. She slumped over and collapsed into the floor. The cruel skeletal beauties looked at each other with twisted smiles and evil glints in their eyes.
Another one for them.

The truth was, she hadn't gotten up too late for breakfast that morning. Or any morning in the past two weeks. She hadn't had a large lunch, either. And the kitchen trashcan was littered with napkins full of hidden food which never made it to her lips.


Confessions

I have a confession.
Sometimes
I'm scared.
Those two words are so obvious.
Of course you're scared. Aren't we all?
And so false.
I trust you.
So true.
It's so strong sometimes, I want to hide from everyone.
So hated.
Why can't fear simply cease to exist in me?
So clinged to.
Because I wouldn't let it cease to exist.
"I'm scared."
It's an excuse, really. Not to trust. Not to be attached to any one or any thing.
An excuse to go on living on your own.
An excuse to pretend it's possible to go on living on your own.
I'm scared. I'm afraid. I don't know what's going to happen in the future and that scares me beyond belief. People change. Don't you know that? What if you change? What if I change?

I'm afraid of yelling. I've heard so much. I don't want that.
I'm afraid of not being appreciated. I already knock myself down enough, I don't need it from someone else.
I'm afraid of everything somehow being "my fault." That everything that goes wrong will somehow be blamed on me. That instead of being what makes you smile, what gives you joy, I'll be what you dread.

I'm scared.

But I have another confession.
I don't care.
I do.
I do care.
I still don't wish for any of those negative things mentioned.
But the Word of God says that love drives out fear.
And therefore,
When that time comes,
I won't have to fear you.

A third confession I will make, and then a fourth.
I do not trust in God enough - I put too much emphasis on myself and my wishes and my dreams and my fears and my insecurities and my abilities.

The healing part of this?
Trusting in God. He Who created the sun, the moon, the stars...He created me. I am not insignificant. But that is not because of my doing - it is because He has created me. He never meant me to be simply spare parts. The God Who created the atom, the cell, the very building blocks of existence....He created me as well. We're so much bigger than an atom. How small they are in our eyes! And yet