white skin in linen, perfume on my wrist…

A little bit of a personal post, perhaps…

Last night was not at all good, emotionally.  I know I won’t be in this situation forever — at least I hope I won’t — on an intellectual level…or I tell myself I do…to be completely honest, I’m so unsure. I want to know things will change, but I am not remotely assured they will. I don’t know if it’s fear or just experience, but…I wish I could grasp onto something solid.

(I know all this must be very vague and hard to understand, and I apologise for my confusing words. I do wish I could elaborate more on my current situation, but shame and fear that people who dislike me will use it to hurt me keep me silent. This isn’t an unfounded worry; they have done this before and I don’t think they’d hesitate to do it again.)

I’m losing myself in Middle-earth and music, which has always been one of two types of emotional signs, for me:
A) I’m at my best, and am emotionally healthy, unashamed of being my eccentric self and joyous, or
B) I feel lost and sad, and I’m sinking my soul into the only thing that truly feels like home.
It’s so odd how it works — exact opposites, but it’s either one or the other. Of course, it’s the latter at the moment. Mélamar — it’s a Quenya word, literally glossed as “loved dwelling”, but its true meaning is emotional home, home of the heart. Arda, for me, is that. Mélamarnya. So I keep my mind and heart there, anchor it with music — I find myself hunting, in a sense, for new beautiful music, and returning to old songs from before…that oddly beautiful time when I was sixteen.

I am looking back at it with nostalgic rose-coloured glasses, of course, but there was a point, in that year, when the whole world seemed so magical, poised on the edge of a blossoming rose…it wasn’t even twelve months, but it was a wonderful time. Perhaps because it was a break in the constant stream of what I now recognise is abuse — the abusers backed off, and it was before my ex-fiancée summarily waltzed in and out of my life.

I can remember the music, the mystical feeling, the starlight, the hope, the wild and feral fae wonder. The joy of singing. The camaraderie of those few people who truly understood me, understood the quiet, secret magic and the beauty it brought to our lives — not further trauma. It was escape. It’s a strange word to use, and it usually intimates running from something dreadful, but that wasn’t the case. I was escaping every minute I was awake, and it wasn’t a panicked, fearful rush or a desperate fight to stay alive…it was a wild, fearless freefall into wonder.

It wilted like a flower by the time my ex-fiancée was through with me, and I became a bitter thing. Bitter, spiteful, wounded. But there was a moment where I was a dancing star, instead.

There is a reason I’ve taken “Arwen” as my name again — it was the name I used when I was that girl. And I want to be her again…I think I need to be. If I can be that star once more — who I really, truly am, I think — then losing myself in a secondary world, willingly, on my own terms, may not be such a bad thing. If it brings me hope, then it mustn’t be.

I move onwards, seeking magic.
Perhaps, soon, I’ll be brave enough to choose hope.
There’s something out there I can’t resist…