Home   >   Feature   >   I finally gave up on being a “Good Girl”

I finally gave up on being a "Good Girl"

By on December 20, 2018
angelam

By Angela Meyer

I finally gave up on being “good”.

The box was too small.

Our savage bones outgrew dichotomy.

Broken hearts opened to something more real, raw and lasting.

The demon voices wake me up at 3 am,

With “not so sweet” sounds of silence.

Covered in blankets of aloneness.

My voice quivers, “Who’s there?”

The girl with brown pigtails crawled into the safety of her parent’s bed,

But now, her warrior eyes, are trained to look beneath your beastly terror,

Welcoming you home into a “Mama embrace,” because maybe you are scared too.

I rock you to sleep across worlds, beating against our tender chest.

Little girls no longer freeze with anxiety, when monsters creep out of the closet.

Instead, they light candles with matches of blind faith and watch their My Little Pony sheets catch fire.

Burning outdated fairytales,

“Earnest Innocence meets Raging Bitch,” superheroes.

We grew into our Wild Woman bones, brave enough to dance with the Devil and not fear damnation,

because we never really believed in heaven and hell, anyways.

Rolling the dice on “good and evil” would always be a 50/50 crap shoot.

Why not splatter paint outside the lines of who we were supposed to be?”

Shooting from the hip with relentless fireworks of “but, why’s”?

SOS signs, spitting sparks across a sky,

the weatherman said was “too stormy” for barefoot puddle splashing.

We rewrote the stories they told us were true.

Our redemption songs welcomed all voices to the roundtable.

We listened deeply.

Weeping for shameful secrets,

unattended pain we pretended was not ours,

buried deep under clandestine gatherings “the scars we do not speak of.”

A “snowfall hush” dropped us to our knees, destroying spring flowers, once radiant with color and beauty.

The world was dying.

We heard an ancient knock.

“Tap. Tap. Tap.”

We had a choice. Keep the door locked forever. Or let the Tsunami of change flow through.

We opened the floodgates.

Willing to burn down, because babies are born from ashes.

We didn’t die. We rallied collective wings to rise.

Battle wounds on knees, because we wholeheartedly believed we could fly.

Unafraid to face plant, because our crazy spirits carried swords of laughter and shields of gratitude.

Somewhere deep within dark nights of the soul, we found the resilience to roar.

Tattooed from dirt, because messy hair still glows, when she hasn’t washed it in weeks.

We welcomed shadows into our web of compassion.

Called by name to sparkle when the sun hits that perfect angle.

Come Jealousy. Anger. Rage. Fear. Shame. Indulgence. Indifference. Not-enoughness or too-muchness.

Our spider veins suck the blood of insecurity and baptize with fierce kindness.

Rest in our cocoon, until you wiggle back into your own skin.

Because the time has come.

We can no longer repress, look away, pretend, or validate your non- existence.

Masked in fake smiles, chiseled bodies, self-righteousness, and denial of death.

The way to protect the castle was never to build immortal walls.

Moats clogged with vicious alligator fears.

Death will come, even when we insist, “I’m fine. I have all the answers. I don’t need your help.”

Castle dreams were never real.

So let’s grab headlamps of gospel light, and dive down into Hades.

Where we may have to hang naked, on a meat hook, for a day or five,

Bloody. Exposed. Vulnerable.

We are born again.

Underworld salvation, standing up on shaky Bambi legs.

Hands waving, “We are still here.”

No longer afraid of the dark.

We saw through the eye of our own hurricanes and learned to ride our own tidal waves.

Indestructible spirits, cackle with the moon because we know the sun will rise through wounded cracks at dawn.

We lay down in the green grass and take a deep exhale.

It will not be easy or void of pain, because it was never supposed to be.

Freedom rings,

as we strap onto this rollercoaster ride between birth and death.

Not knowing the next twist or turn, when we will reach a peak, or “belly drop” down.

Despite the risk, we take our seat of human flesh,

Arms up in surrender,

Wonder-filled eyes open, because it’s more fun that way.

We dance. We sing. We play. We tell stories of our dreams, so they will always live into memories.

Like a soft wind that gently blows one strand of hair across our fragile cheeks and we say,

“Ah, there she is. Ah, there he is. I remember.”

We create new visions, and we love.

Destructive love erupts through our pores, hot lava, destroying the cage of resistance.

We welcome our demons home.

Personalities we worked so hard to perfect, will fall away.

Becoming a pile of bullshit.

Souls meet again, on a corner behind a homeless grin,

through the solo tear, running down the suited mans face that just lost his job.

The old woman crossing the street, who sees through you in one timeless, wrinkled glance.

Intimate. Our next inhale.

Waiting each moment, to rise,

in a touch, a close-knit gaze, simple acts of generosity

and courage, to let go of everything we thought we could plan for,

Saying yes, to the life right in front of us. The one we woke up to.

An inhale. An exhale. Ah, there she is. Ah, there he is.

 

********


angela`Angela Meyer is a Washington, D.C. based writer, seasoned teacher of yoga, black belt in self-defence, and a competitive martial artist. In addition to movement arts, Angela works at an AIDS hospice, is an end-of-life care counselor, Buddhist chaplain, and founder of www.warriorwomanrepublic.com. She has a deep passion for justice and loves good beer.

Follow her on Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/angela.meyer.3760and Instagram:  @warriorwomanrepublic.

About simply...woman!

We encourage spreading the message of knowledge and wisdom. We appreciate and thank our featured partners for their articles. All information provided on Simply…Woman online magazine is for reference only; the content is based on the authors’ experiences and therefore is not intended as a substitute to the services of a fully qualified professional. Although every reasonable effort is made to present current and accurate information, Simply…Woman makes no claims, promises or guarantees about the accuracy, completeness or adequacy of the information.