Confessions of a libra

Diva Blue by Frank Morrison

24.11.24

Melancholy is my oldest friend. She’s always followed me, seeking to infect me when I least expect it. She seeks only to tether to me for as long as I will allow. She is  a deadly mistress, and I seduced by her wiles. She knows things about me, things too complicated to explain. She knows that I exist as a soul uncomfortable in the human body. Human existence bores me. I am impatient to learn the lessons needed to ascend and transcend. I exist somewhere between the physical realms and the higher realms. Carrying the weight of the ancestral line that bore me. Through me, there is hope. That is living.

I began in the world as a soft, delicate petal. As such, my younger years were characterised by tears welled in my eyes. So sensitive was I, that life made it its mission to rouse strength. Strength through the cold, hard knocks of life. You could look into my eyes and see the sadness if you dared. My throat chakra underdeveloped. I recall so many adults in my early years being impatient with my sensibilities. The times I would be forced to eat until I expelled the contents back into the plate. The times my tears were silenced by violence. The ways in which my weight was subject for commentary and scrutiny from before I could take myself to school. The world around me felt like it repelled me at every turn. I frustrated my guardians choosing to be constantly on the run, with them chasing me, metaphorical belt in hand.

Even back then I felt the wrongness on me, wore it like an invisible cloak. Feeling like I did not belong in my family, let alone the world. I was so confused by the anger I incited. Born obstinate, with a wisdom beyond my years. Childhood maladaptive daydreaming had me constantly awaiting rescue from the invisible mystical forces I felt in my life. Always somewhere, anywhere and everywhere. In me and enveloping me simultaneously. Melancholy and daydreams, the themes of my nostalgia. For me, it feels like sadness was a seed alongside me in the womb. For as soon as I took that first breath of life, the seed began to grow as I did. Being fed and watered by the rejection that littered my existence.

Sadness hit me like a truck in my adolescence. The raging hormones, the chaos that was my life, the bullying and scrutiny that one faces at such a tender age. Male authoritarians, male family friends were the enemy that stoked the flames of my depression. Trying to control me, impose upon me their wants and needs. I felt hopeless, trapped and scarred. Alone.  My mother wound was raw and exposed. At fourteen memories long buried barged into my consciousness causing another spiral. Melancholy was ever-present even in the cheery laughs with friends at school. Melancholy was ever-present with my impeccable attendance. Melancholy was there in the confident face that I projected to the world.

In adulthood, melancholy still follows me. Yet now, we are well acquainted as old friends. Now I manage her with care, compassion and love. Now I water her, hug her and love her into peace. Sometimes, I acknowledge that melancholy comes to me to protect me from others. Keep me inside, bring me back to self. Back to introspection. Melancholy, my bittersweet love.