This is the most personal thing I’ve ever written, and that’s exactly why I want to share it. Because it’s hard to do so. Because it makes me feel authentic. If one forgives its melodrama, also because I believe it will help those who have experienced similar feelings.
Remember: Rebirth is always possible. But you have to choose it.
PS. Pick the title you like best out of the 3. I couldn’t!
There once was a girl in a glass castle
Whole life seemed to dazzle.
This is the story of her tame existence
The very reason why she didn’t ask for assistance.
Through glass walls she’d gaze at carefreeness
And genuinely rejoice in another’s blitheness.
She had friends, aims and lots of work to do
So presumably not much to rue.
Not enough to break the glass anyway
Or make alterations to the current screenplay.
Yet, though she thought she was allive and well
Not in the land of the living, but in ashes she dwelled.
So this is the story of a girl who, in fact, had died.
Died a little when experiencing life vicariously through those she bingewatched
‘Cause being more than a cameo in her own movie was of course to be dodged.
When taking expectations of perfection too seriously
Instead of laughing off ridiculous rules spontaneously.
When equating her value solely with productivity
And lack thereof with being worthless currency.
When landing her biggest employment
Only to realise it was a disappointment.
Also when denying herself the little joys
Such as a pony and walking no fewer than 24 puppies with poise.
The girl died some more when she couldn’t say how she felt
Keeping unsimple emotions to herself – an unnecessary seat belt.
Whenever she’d hide a natural, emerging sob
Fearing it would come across as a ticking bomb.
When she was too scared to show she was scared, like – I guess – now
To not be exhaustingly strong for a change allow.
To not quietly put wants on a glass shelf, and dare to be vulnerable,
To put out inner fire through self-expression, however uncomfortable.
When a hospital was initially not under discussion
Despite suffering a freakin’ concussion.
This is the story of a girl who died.
Slowly, surely when blind to his intentional poverty of feeling
The antidote of which is only voluntary healing.
Definitively died when she loved and would dog-like trust
As she just didn’t know how… not to trust.
But wait! In a world where even the Thanos snap can be averted
Might an M. Night Shyamalan twist at this point not be inserted?
I don’t know, a sort of – spoiler alert – John Wick resurrection
After all, the bullet he took was not in the head… body section.
Ah yes… here comes the revelation
Such an obvious explanation:
It wasn’t love pointed outwardly that caused the gradual demise
It was not directing care inwardly as well – what a surprise.
Then there’s hope
For her to embody the female survivor trope
From the ashes emerge like a letter escaping a burning envelope.
Maybe even break out of the glass castle
That’s been giving her so much hassle.
She’ll start by switching to poetry that doesn’t rhyme
And teaching herself how to swim
Unless someone who reads this gives free swimming lessons
In which case – count her in!
Next, she’ll pen happy stories, where darkness is kept at bay,
Cheer on underdog women footballers,
Dream of getting to the magical waterfall that inspired Pixar’s “Up” by balloons, just like the protagonist,
Not conceal that she can sing,
Keep making imperfect YouTube videos using a crappy, mid-range phone that she still had to fight a robber to keep – Really, Barcelona?!
Not let the next school manager shrug off exam-related teenage suicide attempts,
Say “I love you, Dad”, needing no verbal reciprocity as she knows the words are fully mirrored within,
Defend the utterly loud, unbowed soul that her Indian friend Soniya is,
Do sensitivity training with those who fail to realize it’s insanely cruel to have a day for skinning animals alive and call it a festival,
Denounce the absurdity of a 6-year-old being separated from her Ukrainian sister by Oxford City Council, just because it’s harder to find 1 home for both,
Tell the one called Felipe that his rare goodness and a pure kiss on the hair are deeper gifts than he fathoms, and that she wants him to be happy, whatever that means for him,
Finally, she’ll offer reminders that we don’t have to choose between Spock’s logic and Kirk’s whimsicality but stubbornly have both, that fragility is courage, that the heart actually opens when it breaks.
There! The glass is shattered.
The girl has changed the screenplay and annulled the deathday
Not by taking trust back or pushing caring away
No no, those gates shouldn’t close come what may
But by showing trust and love to others… AND herself.
This was the story of a girl who died.
This is the story of a Phoenix… that now lives.
