Life is a bowl of fruit

I used to pucker up like fruit that had rotted to its core, too late to save from dying. My coping mechanisms involved how I could shrink my body to fit the mold of society, her words following me. I dropped out of college and she asked me how it felt, to throw my life away like that. Now, I would rip that sentiment to shreds; I would spew confidence. Lips curled, I can spit fire language like a rapper who's career needs lifting.

I'm no victim, and I'm not sorry about anything.

I think of my past in snippets, like a black and white, old movie that cuts to new scenes rather haphazardly. I struggled with being myself - the girl who cut herself down so frequently couldn't really, surely, at her core, also be me?

So I picked up a pen and cut deeper than I ever had before. On the page, I could be free to be just myself, in its entirety.

But now, it's holding me back - this feeling of over-sharing. I struggle with transparency. I was shut down for so long, both physically and mentally.

I needed to scream, the pain seeping out of me. Writing has offered me an outlet I never knew I needed.

Everything I do, everything I write, I do in spite of my upbringing.

But I struggle with the fear of someone watching. I can't keep recklessly airing my dirty laundry.

At my core, I am a writer. Sharing my experiences, or at least writing about them, may have saved my sanity. It has also made me better. I can organize my thoughts, make them easier to comprehend for others. I just hope it's not too much information.

I have come a long way. I think of my old therapist, her office. How there was a watercolor painting of a bowl of fruit. I thought - is this supposed to represent life? How, when we preserve ourselves, we don't die?

Rotten fruit doesn't survive, but I sure as hell willed myself back from certain demise.