I Want to Be Free from This Prison.
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There are days when I feel too confined to my body.
My rib cage like iron bars representing a prison cell, my heartbeat like the sound of the death march as I await my time on death row. The only thing is though, I can’t figure out why I’m being sentenced. I can’t seem to grasp what it is that I did so terribly wrong.
This body that was created inside of a woman who hated herself and therefore hated me in return, helped build this prison, cell block by cell block, with bits of my soul residing in each one. Encased with the stories that were handed to me like lashings on my back, and I carry the scars of those stories because I can’t seem to find a way to heal.
And so from time to time, they seep and ooze the remnants of blood and pus, and one wrong move can leave them gaping open again as I lie on the floor writhing in pain.
My liver holds on to the rage and anger like a battleground inside of me, and it refuses to let up. I want to run away, but I know that I cannot escape. I have tried countless times in countless ways, but the prison guards are good and they keep me from finding a way out.
There are days where I plead with the judge to set me free but she just won’t, and so I am forced to reside within this prison until my sentence has been served.
I feel the weight of my bones, heavy like stone, and I imagine that each one of them carries that theme of not being good enough. And somehow I know that bones are breakable, but mine seem to be made of some sort of steel because no matter how much I try to bend and twist that story, they always reshape themselves or I find them to be completely immovable and unbreakable.
My stomach sits wrapped in knots because I’m still healing from other people’s pain that was given to me like my favorite candy. I ate that shit up because it tasted good at the time, and now? Now I can barely keep anything down because of the lump in my throat, which seems to be connected somehow to my churning stomach. A part of me wonders if I am still gagging on the aftertaste.
No one asks to be born. At least, that’s what they tell me. And all I wanted from the second my heart started beating in the battleground that was my mother’s uterus was love. It is still all I want, and somehow I have carried around this stone of fear just in case someone tries to hurt me again.
I hold tight to that stone, and throw it at anyone who gets too close, because I can’t imagine someone actually loving me. And even if I could, I don’t even know what that would look like.
But the truth is, I’m tired. I’m tired of carrying around that stone. I long to let go of it, but I don’t know how. How am I supposed to drop something that has become like a security blanket to me? How can I possibly trust someone when they say those three words to me?
I want to be free from this prison, these stories, this pain. I want to drop my weapon once and for all, and trust that given time and the right energy, these wounds on my back will heal. That each cell block will no longer feel like a prison, but rather normal human cells, and that my soul will be trusted enough to guide me. I pray for my freedom, and know that the judge who resides over my case will set me free soon.
But until that day comes, I have to just do my best to keep a smile on my face and breathe deep.
Because I’m fine… and that’s all I have left.
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Natalie Sophia is a self-proclaimed writer, healer, yogini. Her mission in life is to heal and be healed. She loves to laugh, to feel and to write. She began her journey of awakening a few years ago, and though there are times she longs to go ‘back to sleep’, she knows she has work to do. Her work and her passion are one and the same, and she hopes to inspire others on their life path to attend to their deepest longings as a soul in a human body. Natalie feels that life is meant to be enjoyed, not endured. She knows that pain can be inevitable, but there is always choice in the story created from that pain. Feel free to check out more from Natalie on Facebook or on her website.
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