From the Depths of My Heart

From the Depths of My Heart

By Yaka The Broken Doll

In an ocean of thoughts, my mind drifts through memories of a past life—one filled with excess, pleasure, drugs, and violence.

And yet, I cry like a woman. I cry like a man.

(Yes, I do have a dormant masculine side, but both live in harmony within me.)

I cry for the sins I’ve committed, or perhaps for God—

though not the God of Christians, evangelicals, or any religion created and corrupted by man.

I believe as an agnostic: someone who neither affirms nor denies the existence of God without proof.

I believe in Him—or in Her—

in that absolute truth no one truly possesses.

Belief or disbelief is, after all, the essence of freedom.

Yes, I am a constant sinner,

but I live happily, exploring life and the depths of my mind.

I cry often; I let my body express itself.

I look in the mirror many times.

Why? Because the mirror is both your best friend and your worst enemy.

You know why? Because he is an unhappy, brutally honest son of a bitch.

He’ll tell you things without a word—

sometimes, “You’re beautiful,” or “You’re handsome.”

And sometimes, “You’re a piece of shit.”

But at least, he’ll remind you to smile:

you are alive. Smile, breathe, and move on.

When I face the me of the past in that mirror,

she looks at me and says,

“Everything is okay. Go on, beautiful girl. I’ll always be here when you need me.”

Then a tear falls—or an ocean of them—

because many times, I feel so alone.

I live in a house I literally paid for with the sweat, blood, and tears of my sold body.

And still, I am the unwanted daughter—

the son dragged out of lethargy only because of a closed-minded belief that I cannot be her.

But I don’t care.

Living like this is horrible,

and that is why—despite my age—I decided to go back to school.

(I’m not that old, just twenty-nine, soon to be thirty.)

I have lived more than most, in a way,

and now I suffer from fibromyalgia—

rare in men (the idiot inside me laughs: what an unlucky man),

but more common in women.

I know my nature.

I know I’ll never be an “authentic” woman in the eyes of others.

But to me—I am.

I once suffered deeply from dysphoria,

until one day I looked into the mirror again and said:

“To hell with everything. I feel. I love myself.

And yes, sometimes I hate myself too… but this is my life and my body.”

When I finish my studies, I will leave this prison I once called home.

I will abandon those I once thought were family,

but who never truly welcomed me.

My older brothers live in luxury—

thanks to the fact that, in a way, I died that tragic night years ago.

(He cries inside me.) I cry too, but in silence,

because I long for freedom—

to be what I want, and to live a quiet life full of love and small pleasures.

Not out of need, but out of the desire to give myself joy.

Every day, I remember someone important who once helped me.

Because while I lack many skills—

intelligence for modern things like computers, for example—

what I do have is affection and love.

And even if I’m bleeding or torn apart,

I will always have a smile and a genuine,

“Hello, how are you? Are you okay?”

My heart beats stronger when I’m useful.

Why? Because no one was there for me in the past.

So I decided: I will be that person for others.

Maybe one day I’ll marry myself—

love and cherish all those who need me.

That’s how I feel.

My purpose is to help however I can,

without expecting anything in return.

When someone asks me, “What do you want as a gift?”

my answer is always: “Whatever you want to give me.”

I’m terrible at asking for things,

because I am alive,

and I carry a karmic debt—

for so much received, and so little given.

Maybe my words are meaningless to some.

Maybe my thoughts drift too far.

But I let them float,

dive,

and carry me with the currents of my mind.

For now, I have nothing else to say.

With much love,

I’ll go back to sleep in the depths of my thoughts

and continue dreaming.

But if you ever need me,

I will always be there,

my dear loves.

Oh, but don’t worry.

I will come back and speak to you again—

from the depths of my heart.

—Yaka The Broken Doll