thirty-six: blue

blue is pocketbrit’s favourite colour.

it is also my mom’s.

those two facts together feel harder than they should, but there you go.

there is a very particular hue that you can find in the sky sometimes…and that’s my favourite blue of all. it’s bright and it’s intense and it’s the one i thought of when i imagined today’s word. fortuitously, there was a patch of sky that was this blue today and i thought of this post, and of pocketbrit, mostly. but then a bit about my mom and thinking of her just hurt.

this isn’t remotely a good picture, i snapped it in a hurry today, but it has the blue i love best…specifically, the patch at the top middle, just to the left of that wispy fluff of cloud. deep, calming, endless blue. (if i was more tech savvy i’d edit it and circle the exact bit i love, but alas, i’m tech moronic)

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Wrong

I didn’t want to write this yesterday and I still don’t really want to write it today.

I hate this. I really fucking hate this. It feels debilitating and so sticky and like it’ll never go away. The feeling of being wrong grows with shame, some days till its an inferno in my belly. Other days it’s quieter, but it is always there, waiting for the smallest slight, the side glance from somebody on the street that you’ve never even met, that you take as utter disgust. The laughter that you assume is about you, the comments, the nitpicking that you take on as fundamental flaws of your person. The sideways glances, the people ignoring you, the people secluding you, that are actually only not inviting you because you’re so closed off and putting up your ‘don’t come near me walls’ without even realising you’re doing so.

Its the people that are meant to love you and build you up and support you, and help you grow and watch you thrive, that tell you you’re too fat, too dumb, not funny enough, not pretty enough, not sporty enough, you laugh weirdly, you’re too shy, you’re too much of a tomboy… ‘what’re you wearing? Go change’, ‘your hair looks ridiculous, go brush it’, ‘is that a boy?’, ‘stop sucking your thumb, you’re not a baby’, ‘don’t cry, you’re being stupid’, (halfway through telling something important as a kid) ‘that’s nice, now just go upstairs and do x y or z’, ‘why do you have to do that?! What’s wrong with you?’, ‘this is your fault, just go upstairs’, ‘if you tell him we’ll get divorced and it’ll be all your fault. Is that what you want?’, ‘shut up and stop being stupid and help’, ‘why don’t you have a boyfriend?’, ‘why don’t you ever tell me stuff?’, ‘why are you so secretive?’…. This list is far from exhaustive.

Its the lack of interest or care. Its putting yourself to bed at 7 years old, because they won’t. It’s becoming independent and closed off because anything else is unsafe. It’s wondering why your siblings are more important than you. It’s trying to deal with abuse and bullying and wishing you were dead all on your own, because you’d only be laughed at. It’s being mocked by multiple members of your family all at the same time. It’s crying yourself to sleep at night.

Its grown up in my body as I’ve grown up… Planted early on, and fed the best nutrients as I’ve grown. Its been fed so much that I now can’t believe anything else. It’s now so inherent, that even the slightest glance or laughter or annoyance is taken on as evidence of my wrongness. Its taking on things that have nothing to do with me, from family and friends and even strangers, just because I’m constantly searching, constantly adding to the pile of evidence without even realising I am.

It gets in the way of fucking everything. It’s debilitating, it’s terrible. So so terrible.

I go to therapy and tell her that I don’t deserve her time. How could I, when I’m so unworthy of attention or care? And oh my, love from friends…? How on earth do you let that in when you know they’re mistaken about you and one day they’ll realise it and take it all back?

And yet somehow I have, over the years. The small comments and actions of worthiness have sometimes been let in and believed, and yet I really don’t think there will ever be enough of them to counteract it, or even make a dent in it.

It has to come from me, the belief of worthiness, of not being wrong, and yet how can I when if my brain and stomach and heart aren’t in total agreement of my wrongness, are at total odds, one shouting one thing and one the other. The one with the most evidence always wins.

I hate this, I can’t tell you how much.

And im not reading over this, I don’t want to… So I’m going to just hope it makes sense, and I’m sorry for any typos, and I’m sorry its so so whingy.