SeekingSolace[dot]Net

I have reformatted “The Stall” (the play I wrote) into poetry form, and I’ll be performing it at the Women’s Project Poetry Slam next Tuesday (Nov. 13th) at the Coffeehouse in Normal, IL. If you’re in town, stop by and see us.

Also, this is reposted from my account on ThisIsBy.Us. If you like it, please register for an account, and vote for my post/comment on it. My username is SlytherinPrefect, you can just search for me on the site. Thanks.

The Stall

Don’t know, don’t want to know, don’t care.
You don’t ask who I am and you don’t want to know.
Neither do I.
No connection.
No relationship.
No truth in who we are and how we speak to each other.
You don’t ask who I am because you don’t care.
I don’t ask who I am because I don’t want to find out.
It’s not pretty.
It’s never pretty.
No matter the makeup, the clothes, the posture, it’s never pretty.
Because underneath it’s human.
And being human is being ugly.

Stages,
There’s always stages.
Stages to stand on and stages to go through.
Not, “What is my identity?”
But, “What ISN’T my identity?”
Not, “Who am I?”
But, “Who am I NOT?”
Expected to be everything.
Expect myself to be everything.
I want to be an individual,
But I want to have roots.
To have a full history but a blank future.
But that’s terrifying and then all I want is security:
The knowledge that what I have today will be there tomorrow.

But today is just a stage.
Tomorrow is another.
I will go through them just as I’ve gone through all of them.
And they will hurt just as much as the others have.
And they will teach me just as much as the others have.
But no matter how many stages I go through, no matter the lessons I learn, I always feel…

Broken.

In pieces, in bits, like a puzzle with no picture.

Half girl.
Half woman.
Half grown.
Half dead.

Split.

No matter what I do, no matter who I am
It’s too much.
Too weak.
Too strong-willed.
Too selfless.
Too selfish.
Too emotional.
Too afraid.
Too damaged.
Too codependent.
Too anxious.
Too controlling.
Too demanding.
Too independent.

And the labels I inherit…
Or earn…
Or simply become.

Enabler.
Addicted.
Victimized.
Empowered.
Emotional.
Detached.
Clingy.
Selfish Bitch.

These are the labels I carry on my back.
These are the names I allow to weigh me down.

WHY?

Why do I allow myself these labels, these names?
Why have I come to understand myself based on a set of buzzwords…
Of insults…
Of oversimplifications…

Why do I let it happen and then claim the damage afterwards?
Why not stop it when it starts?
Get to the root…

Of what it means to be a woman.
Of what it means to be human.
Of what it means to be.

The more I obsess over…

Looks.
Men.
Perfection.
Sex in the City.
Everyone else.
Myself.
The less time I have to actually…

BE MYSELF.

Whatever that means.

Because no matter how hard I try to avoid it, I will always be a girl in a stall.
Trapped, enclosed, alone, hiding behind the walls meant to shelter my shame.
Embarrassed and deprived of human contact.
Down to the raw humiliation of being human.
Not living up to someone else’s standards.
Not living up to my own standards.

So I blunder on through life, blind and looking for a hand to hold that will never come.

And maybe that’s my own fault.
And maybe it’s time that I take responsibility for my actions…
My beliefs…
My choices…

I need to stop making excuses and start making changes.
Stop running away and start facing up to who I am.
Stop hiding and…

Leave the bathroom stall.