Updated: Feb 16, 2022
A piece of creative writing. Scribbled in my journal before I gained a better understanding of the psych behind it.
The action or process of suppressing a thought or desire in oneself so that it remains unconscious.
"We protect the self by a number of defense mechanisms, including repression and projection"
"Let me just repress everything until my subconscious develops its own form of artificial intelligence capable of making weapons of mass destruction out of the projections its been curating for a lifetime."
There's something sitting at the base of my esophagus creeping up the edges and grazing my throat where it tickles my conscious awareness. A sensation which seeks to be formulated into a thought and teases me with the taste of "almost". "Almost there", "almost time".
Like an egg which has been on the verge of hatching and—if it would—would do so in a burst. An explosion. I can sense the temptation of its yolk sliding down my insides, thick and gooey with a truth itching to uproot me. It almost burns. With a recklessness that simply does not care. That wants to watch it burst in a cascade of yellows and oranges, the buildup of fluids in my lungs causing me to cough it up. Onto you. And leave me with watery eyes from the sheer force of the involuntary movement that just occurred both in and to me, and from the embarrassing cluelessness I can only convey through that apologetic look of "what did I just do?" Like a dog that tore up a couch cushion in a fit of "I need to do this" only to snap out of it and see its owner looking down at it – his expression indiscernible because all the dog can see is the reflection of its own self-disappointment in his owner's eyes. That is how I feel, trying to ward off this egg which moves in me. Causing me to walk with caution in everything I do because too many times I have already felt it crack, reverberating like an echo causing a domino effect of several smaller cracks in the delicate walls of my innermost cavities. I fear if I take one wrong step it will spur the crack that hatches it all. In warp speed and slow motion, all at once and at the same time.
The worst part? I have no idea what seeks to hatch from inside this egg. What kind of monster I have been incubating within me in my ignorance of my innermost feelings and truth. I fear it will eat me alive from the inside out. Clawing its way up my esophagus as I gasp for air and it squirms in the back of my throat. Me helpless as it looks straight into your eyes and tells you what it is; what I have harbored inside of me with a streak of devious secrecy masked in innocent false promises that I am telling you the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Why would I hold it back, you might ask. That is until you were to gaze into the depths of its eyes—staring into yours dead on—singing you a tale whose very tone is enough to chill your insides to the core. While I struggle to breathe and can only voice muffled gurgles which are no match against what this creature inside me has been bred in captivity to say. All I can do is watch in horror.
The even worse part is I can feel it itching to get out. Tickling and teasing my throat. I almost want to let it out to play for the idea of the thrill of it, on one hand. But really for something much deeper: The relief of no longer incubating a monster inside of me.
One which begs to tell you how much it wants to love you. In the hopes that maybe you could love it in return and be the one to set it free from the misery of only ever knowing itself as an unlovable monster. Be the one to set me free from looking in the mirror every day and, no matter how beautiful I may look on the surface, not being able to look past the ugly truth which looms inside. Gazing back at me in my reflection and pulling me under into its world where everything is dark and empty, but for a flicker of hope that true love could exist which keeps enough of a light on down there to just barely make out a face:
A disfigured face of a girl, hidden in her cave, that prays for someone she lights up at to see her for who she is and not run away in seeming abject horror. Who would stay and hold her in the dark and tell her she is not a monster; who would see her as one of a kind and tell her she is beautiful. And show her what if feels like to be seen and wanted in that way. Who would disarm her when she tries to run and hide her face behind defense mechanisms because they would understand the war she fights in herself to pry her heart open after it has been broken by those who fell for the illusion of me, but were repulsed at the first sight of her (even though she is the one with the great taste in music) – and realized we are one, she and I. Who would see her as worth the trouble of getting to know, and help her see herself in a new light.
The real problem—no, the real worst part—is, as soon as one egg of all that hatches, another one just like it will begin to grow in its place. Incubating in my esophagus until I feel it tickling me again. And feel that grow into an itch which grows into a searing burn which I must numb or endure the pain of until I just let it hatch and combust into a sticky mess I have no hope of ever cleaning up;
and you have no hope of ever being able to look at me the same.
*photo by Sarah Speaks