learning how to breathe

Sometimes when I can’t breathe, because the sadness that has clung to me forever is rearing its head, I listen to sad songs.
Somehow listening to someone else’s pain makes me feel better.
I don’t know if it’s because I finally feel like I’m not alone or
If others’ pain just makes me happier.

I’d like to go with the first option.
Somehow it makes it better if my sadness is only lessened by something that isn’t lesser
Because it seems that it is less to want to be more than.

Sometimes when life is too much I play simulations
I simulate life too keep myself from ending mine.
It seems kind of silly.
I listen to sad songs to ease the sadness
And I play at life in order to be able to live.

Sometimes when I long for adventure I read a book.
I see characters I have never met and will never meet go to places I long for.
Magical mystery lands that hold all the answers, and friends, and trials, and somehow the characters always seem to make it through.
Except game of thrones, no one makes through.

But with some exceptions I read to find my adventure filled with feelings I miss feeling, all while sitting on a bus going somewhere I’ve been a hundred times, without ever looking at the world around me.
Sometimes when I want to call my mother, I look at photos instead.
I look at all the memories and remember how I felt, and I stop myself from calling.
But somehow it doesn’t lessen the guilt, trying to be more than enough without my mothers approval.
She has taught me it is usually lesser to want to be more.

I wonder if that’s why I feel less because I finally want to be more than my sadness, than my guilt, than my memories, than my vacant stares, than my earthshattering anxiety. I want to be more than the memories of her hands where they shouldn’t have been. I want to be more than all the times she called me her little shit. I want to be more than the person she made me. I want to be more than the nightmares that always seem to wake me up even when it took hours to fall asleep. I want to be more than the tears that fall when I see a daughter with her mother, anywhere on a bus, at a park, eating in a restaurant. I want to be more than the sad songs, simulations of a life I could be living, books that block out the view of the adventure all around me, and the phone calls I don’t make.

But it’s hard to be more than when your whole life you’ve been told how good you are for being less than.
Less proud
Less angry
Less annoying
Less loud
Less hips
Less complaint
Less objections

She only seemed to say more to
Hands wandering during bath time,
Impromptu shower visits
Helping me get dressed when I didn’t ask for it.
And telling me how smart my sisters are.

So you could say I didn’t have the best example

But dammit
I’m going to be more
More proud
More angry
More annoying
More loud
More hips
More complaints
More objections.

And I’m going to say no to being less, even if that means I listen to sad songs because hearing someone else’s pain makes me happier.
I don’t know if I’m telling myself this to make myself feel better about everything that has happened but it doesn’t really matter.
Because if it makes the sadness just a centimeter smaller then it is more than I could ever imagine.

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