Makeup blog: Reflecting on the past

     My way of dealing with bad memories is somewhat similar to Paul D-and even Sethe- in Beloved. I lock them away, try my very best to pretend they don't effect me. Much like Paul D found though, it's hard to keep them at bay. The more you try to ignore it, the more the smallest things will remind you of said events. I'll be in the middle of class and something someone says reminds me of a time I had a fight with my parents or made of fool of myself while presenting something (this happened quite often actually).  I physically convulse, looking much like a squirrel with turrets  leading people to ask me if something is wrong or if something scared me. With the intensity of my flinching, you'd sooner expected me to have PTSD from war than a simple embarrassing memory. The feeling of boiling magma in my stomach does little to aid my recovery time from the flinching also. I don't handle...emotion well. From nauseating guilt to flinching embarrassment to fall-on-the-floor-while-singing happiness, I just feel intensely. I have no real coping method  to share. My pattern is: try to ignore it, attempt to write a somewhat cathartic poem or story about it, ignore it some more. It's still under revision. The writing thing does helps sometimes however. I wrote a "poem"in creative writing class whilst having a minor panic attach over graduation and growing up, and I feel a lot better about it now (so much better in fact that I cannot wait for school to END).

In attempt to make this post seem more legitiment, I'll post the aforementioned poem on here.
(If you judge me I might very well cry. Do you want me to look upon this blog as a flinch-worthy memory? I'm bearing my soul here people, and Lord knows poetry is not my forte. If I have a forte.)

How do I grow?

Do I grow up?

Up, like a tree

with rings of wisdom

stretching outwards from inside of me?

(But so easily burned?)

Do I grow out?

Out, with echoes of

do this pay that go here move there what.are.you.doing.

Hammering me, like it did others before me

and will others after?

Perhaps I’ll just grow old.

As old as I am competent,

As old as I am independent,

As old as I never wish to be.

Maybe I’ll plant a garden and grow little seeds of lead,

And deal one sided pencils

to the world outside these halls of underaged cinder block,

Where there are no erasers.

(Better for you than me)

No, certainly I shall not grow at all.

I’ll stay ungrown,

Undeveloped

Unknown

until my affair with death becomes so scandalous

that Hell is in awe and children become stunted

and the world’s finger begins to rot as it points towards me and demands

that somehow, I must grow.

Soon I'll hear green paper shackles

singing a lullaby

as they grow like ivy around my wrists,

Coaxing us into their cardboard walls

of cardboard ideas

at the top of the beanstalk.

What if I can't climb,

won't climb?

It's easier to watch the fables grow.

Up the fables and up the stalks

will march blue capped porcelain dolls

stretching like jack-in-the-boxes as they

grow and shrink

grow and shrink

with faces of shattered mirrors

that reflect one hundred images of me.

I'll turn away,

and leave the toys to march

onward.

I will laugh at them,

I will envy them,

And they will grow.

Up and out and old.

I shall never

Decay

Or break

Or mature.

How do I grow?

Perhaps, I will grow under.

I can be the roots,

Never hoping

to see the sun

never dreaming

of anything but going deeper and deeper

into my safe dirt prison.