Madness, in its wild, untamable words, proclaims its own meaning; in its chimeras, it utters its secret truth.

-Michel Foucault

…

 

        My world had scarcely begun when I faced its end. I’ve spent my life trying to rebuild that for which I had no blueprint: myself. I mustered as many parts as I could from the monsters under my bed: Heads, arms, legs and as many fingers and toes as I could find. With these pieces, I put a person together. Rearranging them over, and over again. Forcing broken bits, holding on for all I was worth, and just praying no one peered in too close at the skin I had painstakingly sewn on.

        I have been many creatures. Some biting, some brave, some volatile, and some kind. We do it to survive. We make ourselves into whatever creature gets us to tomorrow. But all of the versions of the person I thought I had to be, didn’t cover the innumerable scars. Some wounds can’t be closed. Not by the hands of any doctor in the world.

        I want to allow myself to grow into someone unashamed. To be a self that is raw and free; broken but whole. I have shed many layers of lies that made me loved, so that I could be a new creature, just once more. A real creature, who accepts all its parts, silencing none. Because however dark or improbable, however monstrous, the truth will set you free.