Young Adult, Old child

At five I was alive

but I was not free.

It took me 18 years to realize

I was an adult until I was 23.

Then, I began to grieve,

and I´m so thankful

for the luxury.

I finally got to be a child

once I got past my self denial,

denying my own desires,

succumbing to the wills’ of others,

shying, relying on approval

for survival.

At 23 I became a child,

only then learning that

all the lessons I learned

I had not actually earned.

They´d been put on for show,

staged for other people to know

that I was valuable because

I wouldn´t step on their toes.

In me they saw reflected

the mirror that I´d projected

so to me they´d feel connected

and not rejected,

like I so often did.

There was some truth to my altruism.

It was my own form of heroism.

If I could appeal to their egotism

then at least I would not create

pain, disdain, contempt or shame

and inflict on anyone else in love´s name.

Then freedom found me,

though ¨found¨ is not necessarily true.

Found sounds so passive when the process

occurred quite active.

My search for solutions

to my past self dilutions

did not just apparate

with a snap,

swish,

flick

of a wand I´d wished

I´d had to escape.

They were pulled out

of the earth with force

like the Mandrake that

makes you faint.

I had to learn to face

anxiety, depression and hate.

¨Ugly¨ emotions I´d kept at bay.

Bay being my body,

because contrary

to popular belief,

they don´t just go away.

20 November 2023