cw: death, suicidality, childhood trauma, isolation, ostracization, (structural) dissociation, depersonalization, derealization, curses
I say much too much, or I say nothing at all. That’s just how it is, with me.
(This is the beginning of the too much part.)
Sometimes when I go quiet, people notice. When I was 10, the kids on my bus noticed. New school, new people. No friends. It was much too much, so I didn’t speak and they named me, No-Talking Girl. Another muzzle. A spell.
You can’t have it in pieces. Can’t have me in pieces either—not anymore. Things die that way. I’ve been dying. That day and countless times since. Cut up, something gets lost, stops breathing; bound up where it doesn’t belong, same thing. So where I can’t weave the whole story, I keep it in.
Do you ever blink and wake up somewhere else?
After every wretched thing that happened, I kept making up my mind to live. Now I’m dying to tell you everything I could never say to anyone.
I stole my name back.
All the time.
It’s me. MINE.
So, hello. Here I am—the parts of me that will show up, at least. All these no-talking pieces. I know not all of them will speak, and not all of them can. That’s okay. Some will. All parts still welcome. They come, to be known, felt, counted, woven back in. I’m setting extra plates for the ones who might still come. I’ll carve out the space for their breathless return. I’ll claim them back this time. I’ll sing myself back to life. Have you met yourself?
This project is an act of courage, resistance, survival. You’re already alive. It’s soul-retrieval, re-membering. It’s love. It’s rage. It’s nonsense. It’s crazy. It’s a portal. It’s a Promise. It’s hide-and-go-seek. It’s more funerals for lost selves than I can count. It is breaking the spells and unbinding my tongue. It’s a holy mess. It’s coalescence & it’s scar tissue. It’s evidence of a private hell. It might be a rebirth. I’m making this to prove to myself that I exist, and have this whole time. Even when I don’t speak. Even when I do speak and nobody hears. Even where nobody has ever found me. Even as I am stolen, and erased.
I’m making this for you too.
…all parts welcome…
Because you needed this too, didn’t you? Why else did you come?
When nothing is real, maybe it all is. So why not?
We’re going to get dizzy, get our hands dirty, get into it. We’re going to come back around, different than we were. And if we don’t like it, we can just shake it off like a dream.
Or can we?