i saw the twins late last night when c dropped by to see mum and find out if ains needed an x-ray for her broken foot and i realized that the differences between the two are growing every day and not always in positive ways
paige looks so grown up and so strong and so…paige, in her leggings and cowgirl boots two sizes too big and september parka, she side-eyes everyone like we’re data mines and she’s looking for answers, speaks with authority and false confidence and full of bravado, filling out the hips and thighs and shoulders that are beginning to swell
and then there’s ains, in shorts cut too short and a tank top that bares the bones of her chest, with hollow thighs and the rings of saturn under her eyes in place of the stars that used to be there, with hips that seem too narrow for her body even as thin as she is, like a photo that’s been compressed, a bundle of bird bones and big eyes that curls into my lap like she’s four, not ten, and when she tucks her face into my neck i am back to rocking her like a child
paige, always the fragile one, always the delicate one, always the quiet one, is finding herself and finding her place and finding her identity without a twin, finding her identity outside of being needy, outside of the scars and limitations that make her different; paige, scheduled for her first angiogram in two years this week, because she can’t get enough air anymore and she’s tachycardic in p.e. and as scared as her mother is, i think paige is even more scared that her heart is going to fail again
ains, always the taller, the bigger, the louder, the more outgoing, is shrinking down and withdrawing; for the first time in their lives, she weighs less than her twin, by a margin of almost ten pounds, which neither ever had to spare; she’s not eating, she’s not talking, she’s too quiet in school, too clingy at home, to ignore the changes, her growth curve has flatlined and so has her smile and i’m so scared i’m losing her i’m so scared she’s losing herself i’m so scared that i don’t know how to help her
i blink and i’m cradling the toddlers i taught to cartwheel, to read, to write, and i blink again and i’m holding a girl who is too much for her body and a girl whose body is too much for her, and i don’t want to let go
i’m afraid of letting go
talk to me talk to me talk to me talk to me i am stupid i miss you i am truly sorry for everything ive done to you its driving me mad i think about you every night and what ive done and im going insane just thinking that youll never talk to me again that i cant see you anymore im dying inside this is so fucked up im sorry im sorry please
You sent this message almost three weeks ago, and you and I both know that now you want nothing to do with me again. Which, I have to say, came as no surprise. I realize you’re angry with me, and I accept that, but please think about what you would have done in my place, if you can.
You’ve made it clear what I am to you: an object or an opportunity or a means to an end, but not a person. Or at least, you don’t treat me like a person, and when you slip, you don’t even talk about me like one. Do you remember when you pulled me out of the computer lab during lunch because you insisted that if I wouldn’t reply to your messages online, then I couldn’t ignore you in person? At one point during the exchange, I told you that you aren’t good for me, that you being in my life isn’t good for me, and do you remember what your response was? “It may not be good for you, but it’s good for me.” I wish I had pointed out your diction then, and I wish I had paid more attention to every instinct in my body telling me to get away, because despite everything I’ve worked so hard for in distancing myself from you and your influence this past year, time and time again, you work your way back into my life just to do more damage.
The last message you sent me summed it up, Alex: “i dont want you anymore.” I am not a fucking possession, I am not something you can pick up and drop again at your convenience, I am not here for your use as you see fit. You don’t seem to get the fact that you don’t get to run my life, to make my choices for me. And I’ve chosen not to be involved with you anymore. I chose that a long time ago, and you know that. The first time you turned on me, when you cut me off from Kate and cut off contact with me and posted your rants on tumblr, you asked that I not contact you anymore, and I respected that. Not once did I try to message you. You were the one to break the silence that you had imposed, by sending me a cryptic song via Grooveshark that hurt like hell. You’ve toyed with the idea of me for the past year, and when you get tired of your game, you find a way to hurt me again. I’m not playing, Alex. Just something to note, you’ve never respected my requests that you leave me alone. The messages never stop. You send them when you see fit to suit your purposes, and you never seem to consider the impact that they might have—or maybe you really just don’t care. Maybe you don’t care if I get hurt. After all, what’s one more time in the grand scheme of things? If you want people to respect you, then you ought to respect others. You can start by stopping the lies.
You asked what you could do to make me trust you again, and I’ll repeat the answer that you wouldn’t accept: you can’t. I don’t trust you on a fundamental level because your lies have so many layers, your stories change so frequently and so fluently, that I have no idea if you’ve ever told me the truth about some events. I would love to know for certain what explanations were fabricated and what apologies were honest, but I’m not sure that any of them are. And I don’t trust you to tell me the truth about even that. You lie for your own gain and you don’t seem to have a limit. I’ve reached my limit. I reached it a long time ago. And my limit is that I can’t deal with you in my life anymore because you manage to poison the progress for which I’ve worked so hard.
You only come back around when you want something, and I won’t be your crutch anymore. I only get hurt every time, and it only enables you. I have come to realize that I cannot give you what you need, because what you need is the self-sufficiency to stop leaning on quasi-codependent relationships and find it in you to save yourself. If you need help, you need to look for it elsewhere, likely professionally.
And in response to “i should ahve neever brouhgy ou back up i ishosusl fha ve never now hs eloves you noy me your all tsshe thinks about what the fuckign what th eufkc”—
I hold no blame for whatever troubles you appear to be having or have had in the past few weeks with Kate. I am not a part of that equation, so separate your variables and solve for the actual problem.
shout out to people who are scared to call others out, whose hands shake when they try to explain what’s wrong, whose throats threaten to close up with thoughts of ‘what if i’m just overreacting’, whose hearts are pounding out of their chests because they just stuck their necks out for their beliefs, who have lost friends and respect and safety for aligning themselves with causes
i will be a stronger person this week
How is your mom
she wrenched her spine and is pretty shaken up, but she’s going to be okay