Monique's Voice.
Comment 1

The Madness of Dictatorship

The notion of how easily we allow other people to dictate the way we feel is mind boggling. Sometimes my insides are so frail that I can’t help but succumb to even the most toxic of human beings, allowing them to shape me, mold me, soften me even more. Soften me to the point where I no longer have control and no knowledge of what I will feel next. I surrender to their words, their scowls and their smiles as they lay down the groundwork for my next move. I let them pull the strings and decide how much of themselves they are going to offer on any given day. Not only do I allow all of this to happen but some of the people whom I love the most, the genuine people, the ones who don’t brand me with an iron will, these friends of mine are the same. They let others take over and unknowingly give them permission to make them feel a certain way. Perhaps that’s why I love them so much. It’s a pattern that I slip in and out of, depending on my state of being, and it’s a pattern that I long to free myself from just as easily as I have succumbed to its madness….

We are not one, but two terrified humans, clinging fast to this life raft. We’ve allowed the world to shape us. Every day the world decides whether we will be fearful or dejected or soaked up in boundless adoration. We renounced our control so long ago that we barely recall ever holding it in the first place. One day the world will surely convince us that we never did. We were children and we didn’t know any better. We are freshly poured plaster molds and we invite friends and strangers alike to cast their paths over our sleeping bodies. We eventually harden and the places where people have stood, remain. The hollows stay in perfect form. They barely stray from the shapes they made the day they were cut. Their walls are ridged and the edges sharp like a blade. In times of peace, waves and glaciers appear, crawling over our plaster selves. They offer their sympathy and try to soften the edges of the grooves. They do their best to help us change history and shape the future but they can’t completely erase the unmistakeable bite marks that continue to rule over our land. As the seasons turn, the water and ice move on with an empty promise of returning one day soon. Our raft becomes those empty promises and those empty promises become our raft and we hold on with an unexplained hunger for life. We know that to stay afloat, despite the waning of our strength and the absence of fire in our eyes, we know that to choose to survive, for now, an empty promise will have to be enough.

This entry was posted in: Monique's Voice.

by

I am a writer, a lover, a daughter, a sister, a friend, an auntie, a derailed artist, a comic, a traveller, and a person living with BPD. I hope that my writing and my experiences are a reminder that you're not alone. Just one day at a time.

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