Krazy Glue

It’s amazing to me. Twenty six years old and I’m still gluing my fingers together. The same rookie mistake of super gluing something I’m holding on to or picking it up before it’s dry. And there it is. I’m still eight years old wondering which I value more, my skin or my pride. I never went to my parents for help, found creative ways to fix myself, nail files, spit, friction. Scraping the tell-tale flakes away. Much in the same vane, I’ve burned, cut, scraped, stabbed my limbs trying to do something on my own, usually trying to fix the things I had broken, learning how to hide the marks always. Not that anyone would have noticed. Memories flood me when I remember these things as they were. They’re not funny little anecdotes of a bright and strong willed child. They’re sad signs of a little girl who wasn’t taken care of, wasn’t taught or nurtured. I was taught how to make myself a priority, fuck everybody else, taught that men can’t be trusted and that women are weak, terminally disappointing creatures. I was taught independence and how to get what’s mine and to never give any away. I learned how to fight. I learned how to scream and be destructive. I learned low self esteem and paranoia. Granted I learned a lot about rock music and British comedy. I learned how to stack wood and drive a stick. But these things are barely consolation prises. I am not consoled. I would give these minor gains back and drive an automatic for the rest of my life, have bad taste in music, just for a chance at an ignorant simple healthy childhood. All these one-ups I thought I had on everyone else, just consequences of being raised by sick people who didn’t know how else to connect or share. Just these cold, distant safe ways of being together. I’ve come so unbelievably far in my understanding of myself and of them. I’m a different more complete human being with people in my life who are good for me and knowledge of how to really take care of myself. I’m incredibly self aware and compassionate and know my faults like I know my bank statements. I am the complexities and resilience and wounds. I’m twenty six years old and I’m still gluing my fingers together.