I find myself at the park. I find myself full of self-loathing. The sun is high and there is a slight breeze, a typical early spring day, after all the snow is gone. One of the first days we all put away our coats and plan our tans.
My self-loathing sits so neatly in my stomach, a dull rumble, not a storm, nor an ache. Just enough to make itself known, little enough to be forgotten for a few moments. Before it resurfaces and burns away everything else.
I hate myself.
I hate others as well. I know others hate me, the feeling of being hated has become a constant heaviness, constantly pressing on me from every direction.
It's even more suppressing at home. It's stifling, like a room where the sun shines in, warming all the space, draining out the air. I hate myself more.
I hate myself.
I hate myself so much I can't breathe, my hands shake, the world swims before me as my heart pounds. I know others feel this same way about me.
The truth is that they probably don't. A small part of me knows this.
I mercilessly beat that small part, and silently ponder of places to hide the body while I fitfully swing.
I like swinging.
It feels like walking on the sky.
Kicking my feet as I fly upwards, I tilt. My swing tries to throw me. I'm scared of falling. My swing route is erratic, no longer straight and safe. The child swinging next to me watches carefully, before their parent notices and yells for them. I feel the disdain of that mother, the disdain of all of them here. Why is that college student here? Why did she try to kick that child?
I kick the sky again.
Then dig my heels into the gravel, making ruts, dragging myself to a low swing, but not a halt. Carefully, I pump my legs, swinging straight and high. I reach the top of the arc, and feel the second of weightlessness, about to float away, the whole word stands still in that moment.
Then I crash back into the seat, the winds rustles in my ears, tossing my hair into my face. I tuck my legs under myself, holding tight to the chain. I reach the top again, high enough I can see over the top of the swing set. The moment of weightlessness, the world stopping, the chain slacks, the links loosening, before I fall back into gravity, the chain is taut again. The fleshy underside of my finger is pinched by the links rejoining. I keep swinging, not stopping to check my hands, not even after they feel warm and slippery, or after all the parents have left with their kids.
Instead, I keep swinging, wanting to feel weightless, to have gravity let me go so I can simply fall into the sky.
(As an author, I have no clue where this is going, but I thought I should share it at least)