Noticing how my gifts double as curses.

Where most people need to see it to believe it, I have to really feel my way through life. My double-edged sword has always been my sensitivity. It’s a sacred gift of protection and a looming curse of being repeatedly mischaracterized by those with hearts more rigid than mine. There’s a dark side to every moon that lights our way. I’ve grown to see my senses as hints or messages sent from beyond; they’re a form of guidance if you can learn to speak the language. I see myself so clearly in the princess who slept on a bed of forty mattresses and still felt the disturbance of a single pea under all the layers. As the story goes, the queen and her prince are only convinced that she is a real princess after she proved her innate sensitivity. Only then was she awarded her happily ever after. Things are much different in our world; hyper-sensitivity is cast under a negative light. It comes with pressures to “toughen up.” It’s frowned upon any time a person strays from the beaten path of enduring things for the sake of being accepted by anyone but themselves. Simple minds send a wave of sadness down my spine. Since when did listening to your heart become so taboo?

tossing and turning

inner voice (in·ner voice)

a part of our spiritual nature. a subtle feeling or thought that guides our decision-making and personal growth. a direct connection to your higher self that allows access to deeper wisdom and insights beyond the confines of the conscious mind.

I know who I am, deeply. I believe in myself. The heart is the most beautiful thing about a person, and I know mine has ancient wisdom running through it’s veins. When I’m alone it’s so easy for me to trust it. Maybe that’s why I love my solitude so much, it allows me to get quiet enough to hear what my soul is trying to tell me. Despite my sureness, I am still so little on the inside, sometimes susceptible to subtle manipulation even with all I’ve learned. My body can always spot an untrustworthy person, but my mind never wants to believe those discoveries at first. I couldn’t recall one lesson that I haven’t learned the hard way. Working on that. I’m always baffled by hindsight, how could I not see all of the ways I betrayed myself for the small reward of maybe possibly being loved. When I go searching the hallways for my mom, with tears traveling towards my heart, she always says something like her latest line:

“People are not used to you raimi, you do things the way we were meant to”

She means out of love. Earth bursts every bubble I blow, yet I dip my wand back in the bottle every time with no hesitation. Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results—is that insanity, or am I more like a scientist dedicated to her worthy cause? My existence is so experimental. I don’t repeat my patterns in the same way though, every good experiment has its constants and variables.

I’m flipping the pillow over every thirty minutes in search of the sweet spot, trying two blankets instead of one, changing the fan speed, feeling around for my sleeping mask. Back, side, belly, sigh. When I ignore the fact that the best remedies target the root of the problem, I catch myself trying to put band-aids over bullet wounds anyway. I get it now. If I’m squirming, something’s probably wrong, and maybe if I want to rest easy, there might be some truths I need to accept in my waking life so I can adjust accordingly. No iced coffees before bed, no scary movies, or sugar. There are no rewards for suffering on purpose. Listen to your heart even when it tells you things you don’t want to hear; let go or be dragged. This isn’t about sleeping.

is love dead or dying?

One thing about me. I’ll try anything once, or twice, three times even. I hate how convinced I am that I can find a woman’s love in a man. I wish I could date myself; everything I look for in a man I’ve found within long ago. Yet I go searching for things I already have, seeking the warmth of big arms and flat pillows on a boy’s bed. I jump off the diving board expecting to plunge into an ocean, only to hit my head five foot eight inches deep, wondering…where’s the rest? In every relationship, I fall hard. I notice everything; I adore flaws like they’re perfections; red flags are just the things that make them human. No one’s ugly to me; if they like something, I love it. I’m obsessive, but still I’d never cage a bird. I’m all in, and if you make me happy, I’ll make you happier. I call myself a good lover. As it turns out, I’ve seen too much, and I don’t have the luxury of riding it out anymore. I feel the pea under all the mattresses far sooner than I used to, and it hurts. I can tell what even the smallest seed will grow into before it sprouts. I know too much. These days I’m more of a leaver than a lover; sometimes I wish I could let myself keep getting hurt just so I could be around a person for a little longer. After feeling the pea I savor every moment knowing in the back of my mind that it’s going to end, wishing that it wouldn’t, wishing they could’ve been who I thought they were, who they pretended to be. Maybe the temporary nature of love is why it’s so unbelievably precious. I try to memorize their faces one last time; whether they deserve it or not, I’m tender, and I’ll miss you for no reason.

As I expressed my admiration for him after a dinner date, he looked at me and said

“You give me way too much credit, one day you’ll look back on this and realize that being with me was you doing charity work.”

My jaw dropped while my heart sank. They say when a man says something, believe him. My mind began to race; I sat silently in my place as a passenger princess. My belly was full, but my heart felt hollow. Was he taking advantage of my softness knowing that he was unworthy? Knowing that he wouldn’t live up to my standards? Hoping I wouldn’t notice the imbalance? I’m aware that people are opportunists, but I had always hoped that a person who knows my story would rein that part of themselves in, knowing that I’ve already suffered more than I deserved to in this life; maybe they’d protect me from themselves. Naive and trusting, I don’t know how to play this game. The words I thought I’d never say are all I hear in my head now. Love isn’t for me, or I should say the kind that’s readily available isn’t. I’m afraid that I go searching for a love I once had in every man I meet; they fall short every time. I try to clear the slate, give them a chance, but once you know what it’s like, nothing ever compares. Maybe true love is a one-time thing. It wasn’t perfect; he wasn’t perfect, but it was honest and natural. It was so real. I was loved to the point of invention. I came before everything; I never heard the word no. He was on a mission to hold the world in his hands, just to give it to me. Once he told me, “You are the closest thing to god I’ve ever known.” Devotion. I should be grateful for my great love instead of yearning to replicate it. The best things only happen once in a blue moon, I suppose.

sink or swim

I aim to keep my head above water, but I’m too silly. Caught between pleasure and priorities. I swim across the sea with my eyes locked in on the land in the distance; somewhere safe to rest my wings seems so close but so far. My optimistic nature keeps me on the right path, but the darkness within makes me feel the heavy presence of weights chained to my ankles. It’s so strange that when I look down at my feet, there’s nothing there. How could I be so free but feel so far from it? I’ve always felt that I’ve had one foot in each dimension; maybe that’s why some people get me and some people don’t. There’s a level of magic that needs to live inside of you to talk to me and know what I’m saying. Earth is confusing for me; I do tend to feel like a fish out of water that just won’t die despite being in the wrong place for so long. It makes me feel like I belong here in a way, so why is it so hard? Naturally, I breathe water, but air works too; it just stings a bit. I remind myself that when we were all born, no one promised us ease; we were only promised the gift of experience. So I will be grateful for it. I’m grateful to feel so much and come out of it each time anchoring deeper into the promises I made to myself. Promising to be kind where most would be mean, promising to not let my experiences turn me bitter, pleasing the angels that sent me.

The challenge is to feel it and keep swimming anyway. Maybe even encourage another sweet soul to join you on your path. Softening my heart to open my mind, I tell myself. My hair gets wet when I start to sink, but when I come back up for air, it’s a reminder of how far down I’ve gone while still being able to make it back up to the light. The journey continues, and I must see it through. Feelings are just feelings; memories romanticize themselves as time goes on, trapping us in cycles in our minds. The water is cold and unforgiving; there are monsters below, the tide pulls you in the opposite direction of where you want to go, storm clouds form, it feels endless. But I want to feel the sun on my skin, I want the sand to sparkle on my feet, I want to collect shells and keep them in my pockets, and I will. All we can do is identify the energy thief and cut the cord. When you find a pea swallow it whole, keep swimming angel.

sending love to wherever you are.

& thank you so much for reading.

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