As I reflect on the past 183 days of my life I realize very little has changed. I still feel the same discomfort for my affections. My misguided attempts at fixing any mental or emotional problems have left me with regret for ever trying. Sinking further into the distraught nature of my personality I close myself off from the world. Cowering back into the deep chasm of my mind, my safe space, the only place I truly feel comfortable. A safe haven away from hate and mockery. A bunker so secure that the strongest nuclear missile strike of insecurities and self-doubt could not even scratch the surface of these walls. It’s everything I need, exactly when I need it.
Each time I revisit this mental palace I continue on a project that has taken up years of my life. Upon each visit I place a brick amongst many others along a line of a wall. The wall is withered and tattered with blemishes proving its use through time. A wall that has withstood many blows. The wall stands 6 feet high and wraps around roughly half of the structure. Encircling the monument from the front with a large body of water thwarting anyone who advances from behind. Designed specifically to keep people at bay the wall is just high enough for me to gaze over the top and see out into the horizon of possibilities. Waiting for the next soul to pass by and approach. Each time they do I stand firm at the wall. Untrusting and suspicious. But each time my distrust is met with honesty and compassion. The type of honesty that is carried inside a 5 year old girl. A type of compassion that causes the butterflies to emerge from their cocoons in the pit of my stomach. A brand of attention that leaves my knees weak and my head spinning. A head rush so powerful that it could be used as anesthesia, numbing all pain, leaving me delirious. A cataclysmic feeling that causes the ground to shake and bricks to fall. Kickstarting the collapse of the barrier I have worked so hard to manifest. And for awhile we are happy. Motes turn into gardens, walls replaced with bridges, winter changing to spring. And just as we start to paint the shutters of our quaint home sky blue the lightning storms start again. Clouding my judgment. Washing away the colors of our homestead before it got a chance to dry. As the thunder claps it drowns out all clear thoughts, we start to fight.
Slowly our relationship fades from the vibrant rainbow it once was to a monotone grey that resembles a 1930s television set. Love and compassion turn into violence and spite. Cheap tricks of joy turn into cheap shots of aggression. The sky darkens and so do the insults. Depression rings the doorbell once again. The small comments start to chip away at the opaque armor that enveloped our time together.The broken fragments falling away revealing the soft exterior of a heart that could easily be split in two with a mere piece of paper. As this armor fails so do the words I attempt to use as a patch for the holes. Feeling discouraged I retreat back to the broken castle, putting out construction signs, and placing a new brick among the line as the crumbling wall welcomes me home.