“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them — words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.” ― Stephen King
I didn’t want to write today because I am an emotional mess this morning. I’m honestly trying to tie myself together with the brute strength of my anger because if one tear falls, I’m dismantling and some shit just isn’t worth having to be rebuilt over. The positive thing about pain is that the more intense it is, the less energy one has to lie to themselves and others. Pain is honest. It overwhelms anything and everything else. Emotional pain becomes physical pain. You’re gasping for breath; abs are hurting from heaving; head is aching. That pain demands release. You want to scream, punch through cement walls, cut yourself just to draw the pain somewhere else. What better time, then, to open Word and bleed all over the page?
I started writing in tenth grade. I had all these feelings and emotions going on internally, and I couldn’t talk to anyone about it all. As I’ve mentioned before, I kept my rape to myself and attempted to go on with my life ignoring the toll it was taking. Unfortunately, at 14 years of age, I wasn’t emotionally mature enough to effectively bury it, so I picked up my pen. I started to create worlds where it didn’t happen, where my dad was in my life, where I was protected every day. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote myself free of the aftermath. I became a loner who walked around with her notepad and pen. Writing was my therapy.
This has guided my life. When something hurts, I lose myself in my words. Screw reality until I want to deal with reality. I learned at a young age that happiness is a choice. People will lie to you. People will deceive and disappoint. That just because you open your heart and world to them does not guarantee they will reciprocate. So putting your happiness in the hands of someone else is the surest way to never be happy. So you make your happiness your sole responsibility.
Thus, I enjoy each moment as it happens for I know it’s temporary. It may even be an illusion. You may try to memorialize it with photos, but it will never be recaptured. My words, though. My words are lasting. They are occasionally elusive but they have never failed me. My words are my truth, and in this world, only I dictate if I will stay broken. And that dictation strengthens me to deal with whatever my painful reality currently is.
I’ve never addressed why the name of my blog is “Too Many Flavors For One Spoon.” It’s from a piece by spoken word artist, Staceyann Chin.
The truth is I’m afraid to draw your black lines around me
I’m not always pale in the middle
I come in too many flavors for one fucking spoon.
I am never one thing or the other.
At night I am everything I fear, tears and sorrows, black windows and muffled screams.
In the morning, I am all I ever want to be: rain and laughter, bare footprints and invisible seams, always without breath or definition.
I claim every single dawn, for yesterday is simply what I was, and tomorrow even that will be gone.
I claim every single dawn. For yesterday is simply what I was, and tomorrow even that will be gone. Pain is temporary. My happiness will never be.
Today’s Soundtrack: Elle Varner – F It All