The problem with the past is it's already behind us. There are no do-overs, no take-backs, no Jedi-mind tricks. What's done is done. That is also the most comforting thing about the past: Looking forward.
Unless you are stuck. Stuck in a life before the current one; living in-limbo, between what is and what was.The problem with limbo is the people in your present (potentially future; see "when we become human") aren't fully fledged humans yet. You have given them the impossible task of fending off your demons before they can warrant a place in you heart.
For the record, for anyone who has ever done this intentionally; please don't. The types of people who are willing to go into battle for someone else's wounded heart, rarely survive the fight.
After a year and a half of fighting off someone else's demons, the warring died down but I no longer knew who I was, without someone else's battle cry. When I dyed my hair black, in response to the darker times, you would wake up, in the middle of the night and tell me I looked like your Ex. Then blame your Ex for all the reasons you couldn't be good to me. So now I was the embodiment of the problem, with the eyes of the solution.
Please do not wonder why we didn't work out.
Months later, you have made your past my future, the way root vegetables make everything around them rotten. The battles I fought for you have now become my own. But I refuse to have someone else fight them for me. No; I could never damage a person like that. Instead, I will teach myself a new battle cry and take several breaths in the right direction.
We are only as small as our darkness is big and, today, it looms in the shadows. Yesterday it mocked me from my mirror, made jokes about the way the fringe fell on my face.
Further than the problem, however, is the solution: An opportunity to do something right in spite of the hardships. Maybe that's closure. Maybe that's leaving someone else's toothbrush in a mason jar.
The truth about who we are is that it has to shift, to make room for all we will become.
The truth about keyboards is the shift-key makes them something new.
The truth about keys is that they lead to doors.
The problem with doors is that we never know exactly when it's time to close them. To leave the past behind; no do-overs, no take-backs, no Jedi-mind tricks.
The problem with being an extremist is that I have my ups; they're exuberant and bright. But I also have my downs; they begin softly and plummet to that place below the covers that we never go, in fear of never reemerging. In the ups, I reemerge: Forest for the trees, things look a little easier. But nothing feels easy.
It is for this reason that, even on my lightest days, I take life pretty seriously. I think I'm hilarious--but I don't know if that always comes across (so I take comfort in making myself laugh). And I think I get a lot of jokes (but some days I miss them...when the grey resting on my shoulders is heavier than a scarf but wraps around me just the same).
I am deliberate. Even when I'm wrong. I replay moments until they are seconds-spliced two times over. I have never put a toe in the water. Extremists don't waste phalanges...we go all in--or not at all.
So I'm convinced the reason I can't pick people up is because I don't know how to put them back down. Once I've put you on that pedestal, I'll keep you there, years after you've changed your name or your profile picture. It's probably too much pressure. I always expect too much from people who reek of lesser expectation. Who know who they are, who are happy with their choices. Once upon the pedestal, I tell myself that nothing stands in the way of the pedestal and the person but it isn't so instantaneous, outside the confines of my outstretched hand. And there is only so long a hand can be held before it makes yours pruney, from the sweat of a lifeline.
In a place where things are casual, there is middle-ground. No up, no down--no expectation. Just "hello." For me, a hello has never been just. I am a product of Jane Austen and The Babysitter's Club. We read into everything. I don't understand casual--so I try to fill it with importance. With weight. With more. And though heavy, I am determined not to put it down.
This is Me:
My name's Melissa. I'm the girl with her hands in her journal.