|The Things They Carved
||[May. 12th, 2011|07:57 pm]
Once, although I can not remember when, there were no marks on my soul. Once, although I can not tell you how long ago, I was truly an uncarved block, waiting to be formed, waiting for the path of my life to be etched upon me. Many times, so many that I can not begin to count them, I have wished a different path was carved onto the surface of my soul and my spirit.|
They say that each person we meet comes into our lives for a reason. Thinking back on it now, I suppose that's true. Wouldn't it be nice if evryone who touched us, who had a hand in shaping us, had only our best interests in mind? Wouldn't a life that hadn't been shaped by someone else's selfish desires be perfection?
Of course, not everyone I've known has affected me adversely. Of course they haven't. There are those whose marks upon my soul make me smile. Sadly though, there are those whose etchings make me cringe.
I was nine when first he saw me: nine years old, sheltered and innocent. He saw something in me. I can't tell you what, for even now, so many years later, I can't figure it out. I have no idea what made him look at me and see "victim" written so clearly. But, this is what he saw, and he began the slow process of teaching me that a victim is all I would ever be. Upon my soul, he made the first marks of servitude. He was the first to teach me that I have no value, unless it is to fulfill someone's most unnatural desires.
I was eleven when she first heard me sing. I'd always been told I was gifted, but, honestly, how gifted can an eleven-year-old girl with no training be? Still, she looked at me, listened to me, saw potential, and so, I was chosen. For twenty years, I've studied with her. For twenty years, my soul has been shaped into that of a musician and an artist.
He'd known me all my life. In fact, he was probably present at my birth. Maybe being a teenaged uncle was cool for awhile, but, when your playtoy grows up, and develops a mind of her own, maybe that's not quite so cool. So, he began to make his marks, and how closely they resembled those of the first man. To him, I am a whore, I am unworthy, I am dirty. To him, my purpose is plain, and not pretty. In his mind, my level of success, education, talent, or physical proximity don't make a bit of difference. To him, I'll always be a whore, and I bear the marks to prove it.
I was twenty when she first said she loved me. I'd been engaged by then, but the engagement had been broken off. I'd finally admitted that I was a lesbian, and now, someone loved me. We'd been good friends then, and, although I had feelings for her, I never thought she'd return them. But, she did, and, for nearly ten years, we lived our lives as one. I was cherished. I was loved. It was an unselfish love, not there to prove a point, or to make me into something I wasn't. Instead, it was that love everyone dreams about, pure, unselfish, accepting. She has taught me much over the years, shaped me in ways I can't even begin to describe. As in all relationships, it wasn't all good, but most of it was. I'm glad to bear the marks of her love, proud to be the one she loves so much.
And so, people really do shape us. They have an effect on who and what we become. Sometimes, we may wish otherwise, but that's life. No one can stay smooth and unblemished forever, and it's foolish to think otherwise.
This has been my entry for week 25 of
I can't believe I've made it this far. Thank you to all of you for making it possible.