I always hated the rain.

Stormy, rainy days were nothing but dreary to me. I didn’t find them the least bit cleansing. The dark, cloudy sky felt depressing and angry, like thunder lashing out at me. I used to crave the sun after it abandoned the sky. When it shone, I basked in it, giving myself to the rays burning into my skin. I found salvation and healing in sunny days, a metaphor for my life; swallowing the sun while sheltering in place.

But tonight, as the summer rain poured down, I held my head up to the sky and opened my arms wide, wider than I have for another human. For the first time, I felt a glow, a pulse I only expected from the sun. The misty air smelled so crisp, so clean, I ached for a means to wrap it up and never let go.

I inhaled, my head spinning, my exhale a love letter to my own breath. I allowed the rain to cleanse me and frolicked alone, skipping and kicking stones, a cosmic moment, since I needed a hand to hold for nearly everything. Yet here I was content. Fulfilled, even.

Soaked in rain and happy tears, I peeled off my clothes and gave my body to every raindrop. I was quenched in a way that I never thought humanly possible.

I became the sky.

My floodgates burst, purging every raging storm inside me. I broke down on the street and cried myself to sleep. When I woke, I opened my eyes to a ball of light stretched across the tear-stained sidewalk.

Let’s be real, I never was a fan of dealing. Dealing meant my eyes burning from the truth, it meant living inside the torture of my reality. So, unresolved pain stays lost inside of you, it’s intertwined with everything you are, and nothing you wanted to be.

Now every part of me is something I feel trapped in, something I desperately need to escape, a living soul wanting out of its body, an atheist praying to be torn out of her skin. I begin a ritual of covering every mirror in this hole I call a home because anything that reflects what you hate about yourself taints your perception, anything you refuse to see only closes the eyes of your heart, and in your mind, lessens the pain.

We store what has hurt us for safe keeping unconsciously, in case our hearts need protecting, in case we need referencing of the past to justify our actions. Which makes me wonder if there’s another personality that resides in me, conceived from the built-up anger, pain and frustration. I give birth to this thing I carry without a name, a child I never wanted but is still mine.

And I’m an expert at keeping the curtain drawn on that part of me I wish to remain unseen, my throat haunted by words I never say. Like a captor I hold myself hostage, and unwilling to have mercy on its victim, I refuse to rip the tape from my mouth and let myself speak.

Perfect example of this is conflict of any kind: I shy away from what hurts, because I don’t want to fight, I don’t want to hurt anyone, but if I’m being completely honest with myself, it’s mainly not wanting to feel the pain of the discord. It causes irrational anxiety beyond belief, and I can’t remember if I’ve always been this weak.

I sometimes wonder why I’m so thin-skinned, but then I think of my mother, and it makes complete sense. She’s not exactly the best example of strength, and I feel guilty even writing that, but the hardest truth to face is that I’m exactly like her; malleable, living with my head in the sand, untrusting of a world that has been nothing but kind to me.

I’m the one who feared the world wrongfully, and I never realized that until recently, when I finally took a good, hard look around me and saw I’m surrounded by loving arms and genuine hearts. Those individuals who’ve hurt me and let me fall don’t make up the entire world, they shouldn’t diminish the light of those who’ve held me gently. That revelation is one piece of solace I’ve found hidden underneath the cobwebs of everything I grew up believing.

I tell myself: put those ghosts to rest and set yourself free by wrapping yourself up in the heated blanket of a heart that will lift you gently and carry you through the aftermath safely. That will sit beside you at the fire-pit of your demons before you have the courage to put your hand in the flame. Once you’re ready, they’ll ease you in, coaxing you to feel every blister bubbling, so that you can shed your skin and finally regrow into the person you were truly meant to be.

How do I tear myself open, if I'm afraid of the pain?

I think that's been my biggest problem with my writing. It's not enough to me for a reason; it's not being self-critical, it’s not me being a perfectionist, it’s me not gaining anything from the writing. It's feeling like I'm digging but only scratching the surface, when in reality I'm not really digging at all. I'm not getting my hands dirty, I'm not ripping my heart open. My words don’t shame me. They don’t hurt. I don't cry as I write. I don't lose my breath and need breaks to get myself together.

Instead, I dissociate; I'm on the outside and maybe that's why I can't reach down deep. I’m not inside the pain, I’m not living and breathing it, because I’m afraid. And I think that’s why I become obsessed with writers who aren't afraid to cut themselves open and perform surgery on themselves, pouring their blood and guts on the page, because it's something I so desperately want for myself.

It's funny that this is even a problem because it fits perfectly with the common theme in my life; refusing to work for anything. I expect everything to come naturally, and I have no idea where this ridiculously unrealistic belief stems from. All I know is that it's something I've carried with me since childhood. I remember trying something, then dropping it cold because "I couldn't do it" or "I wasn't good at it". And I've always treated writing the same way. I expect to write what just comes out and for it to be gold, because... honestly, I have no idea why. Just an odd belief that’s always felt as natural as breathing, that's really the only way I can explain it. If it was a mindset I’d developed over time, then I'd say it’s a result of life experiences. But to cling to a belief that you were born with is puzzling. Maybe it's merely genetics, as my parents aren't the best example of working towards something and striving to be better.

I really need to get inside myself. Really really dig and find something meaningful, painful, triggering, anything that lets me know I'm alive. But the first step is folding into myself, tune into my feelings. Close my eyes and allow myself stillness. Turn myself inside out and take in all those feelings I couldn’t face and pushed away, and pull them close.. let them ruminate in my body and stir until they manifest tangibly so I can transcribe their energy into words. Words powerful enough to fully express what I'm feeling for a change, leaving me with nothing left to be desired. Once I let the words flow authentically and unapologetically, then maybe I'll stop this game of measuring my writing against others and feeling so inferior, that I don't want to write another word and instead express what makes me me in my writing.

Edit: I'm going to take my own challenge and see what comes out.

Who would’ve thought

The storm that broke me

has paved the way to my growth

Finally,

I’ve found my own rhythm and flow

Through the chaos and pain,

A strength was reborn,

In the depths of despair,

A new light was born.

The tempest that once shattered,

now breathes my name,

In its fierce, untamed clatter,

I found a new flame