Unhindered

The wind chimes sing frantically as heavy gusts send them knocking into each other. I look outside, that tugging anxiety growing as every minute passes—the turbulent weather birthing turbulent feelings in my chest. I breathe deeply, trying to ignore the chill running down my spine. A jacket will not suffice this time.

As the wind howls, it crescendos into high-pitched wailing as it soars past trees and corporate edifices. The owl that sits in the tree outside calls out:

Who? My heart aches for it in the cold, but I remind myself that it was born for this. It was born to handle the elements. And somewhere deep down, my soul remembers the wild it was born to endure. In my artificial home built with artificial materials, heated with artificial logs, my fridge full of food with artificial flavors, I realize that even my feelings have been artificial. I have worn a mask for years—a cheap drugstore mask that smells of cancer-causing chemicals, an unhealthy way to hide myself, that has made every breath laborious. But tonight, I yearn for reality. I am ready to breathe freely.

Who? That part of me that wants to try—even just try in the most pathetic sense, in the sense where failure is inevitable but in the act of trying, hope thrives—that part was locked away the day I let him in. I let him stifle it. I let him stifle me. Subtle insinuations that I am not enough, gentle insults to keep me in my place, loud outbursts if I dare ask why—just a few of the mantras I mutter to myself as I pace. That piece of me, who has been hidden for so long, adds a few more words to my chant. I deserve happiness, I deserve freedom, I deserve to thrive. I catch a brief glimpse of myself in the mirror.

Who? Another call from the yard. I think it’s a barn owl. I’ve seen the white of its feathers and its flat, framed face only briefly. My reflection still looks back at me in the mirror. I barely recognize who I have become. I blame myself so often for the imperfections, for the lines that are beginning to appear around my eyes, for the overly full cheeks and chin, for the strands of silvery gray cascading amongst liquid gold. I used to love me. I used to see beyond the surface, but now I exist somewhere between my physical self and the mirror image, caught between who I am and who I perceive myself to be.

Who? I look out the window, hoping to see the owl. It’s dark and that reminds me to look at the clock. My stomach churns as every minute brings the coming storm closer. I open the window slightly and smell the rain roiling in the clouds. There is something in that scent that carries anticipation, dread and promise. I turn back to the mirror and dab a bit of color onto my eyes and cheeks. Any alterations to my appearance make him nervous. He prefers my face free of makeup. He prefers my natural height, no high heels in my wardrobe. He prefers round curves and folds over me feeling healthy. My heart knows that he prefers me prone, undone, lost. Tonight, my appearance will be my own construct.

Who? I fight against the voice in my head that says I look like a clown. I smirk because that inner demon, while wholly evil, is fairly creative with its insults—this time, I’m likened to John Wayne Gacy. A subtle jab at the cosmetics, the extra weight, and the violent task at hand. This sour part of me has grown under his constant nurturing. It speaks loudly to me. It justifies the pain, the sadness, and the emptiness, using me as the cause and the blame. Tonight, I will be putting to death something with a cursed existence, something that has been diseased—a gangrene on my soul. I look squarely at my reflection. If I look like a clown whilst donning my war mask, so be it.

Who? I am isolated. Family is at arms’ length. Friends are just former. He takes every measure to make sure that I am wholly devoted and dependent. My soul knows better though, knows that bonds are not made up proximity alone. And hell, even if I am alone, that owl can be my first friend. I have always loved that owls are omens of death and symbols of wisdom. Death begets wisdom. Wisdom begets death. As I have watched loved ones and parts of myself die, grief has been my mentor. It has schooled me in pain and letting go. It taught me to be angry and forgiving, to never forget but to move on. Every time I considered meeting death, grief was there to question and redirect. And, I suppose that while death kept me hollow, grief kept that piece of me from disappearing altogether. This person who I have shared a bed with for many years is grief without cause. Grief without wisdom. He is a murderer who gave me the tools and the mindset to eviscerate myself. A passive killer. But I am not naïve. With grief’s wisdom imparted to my soul, I am ready to put this grief to death.

Who? A car door shuts and I shudder, goosebumps erupting. The time has come. I have tried to predict the future, tried to discern all possible outcomes. But the truth is, I don’t know. The only thing certain is my resolve. This must happen and I will execute my soul’s command. I sharpen the metaphorical blade, my mantras shouted in my mind and heart. He walks in. My lips quiver, and I curse the tell. I need to present a firm front, no weakness in my armor. I don’t know what he will fire back, but I know he will try to parry my blow.

Who? I watch with silent disdain as he pretends to stagger. My words are not a match for the gusts outside, but he wants me to think they are harsh. At once, I see through the façade. I see the calculations. He knows that anger will not sway me, so he feigns sorrow. Briefly, I think there really is sorrow. But sorrow for himself. I set aside these considerations. I must be fully present, no more retreating inwardly. My soul can almost taste the fat drops of rain that have started to finally fall from the sky. I will quench that thirst.

Who? Similar drops fall from my eyes as I watch myself rip the veneer off the relationship. They fall as he begs for himself, as he pleads with me to spare his loss. These tears, my tears, do not fall for him—they fall for me. He will not see that I almost lost everything, to my core. He does not care about the times I prayed for the real death. He does not care that I am hollow. I cry for my soul, for not listening or caring for her in so long. But the salt that stings my cheeks is also anger. I hate him, and while I have no intention of dwelling on this relationship, I also have no intention of forgiving. My tears fall in silent resolve as I finally carve out this cancer, revealing room for all the things I used to love and the room to grow.

I gather my belongings, choosing to leave the majority in the past. As I open the door, rain now hammering down, the petrichor refreshes me. I am finally ready to embrace the question that the barn owl has been posing all night:

Who?

i am. Quiet, uncertain.

Who?

I am. Like a wobbly calf gaining its footing.

Who?

I Am. With every breath, rhythmic, it grows.

Who?

I AM. My soul screams into the darkness.

Ready to go anywhere. Ready to be anything. Absolutely, completely me.