eggshell

Before baby birds bloom, they blossom inside a shell. A beautiful egg shell blue, painted with the bittersweet of the world outside. The shell protects them until they are ready enough, strong enough, smart enough to make a way of their own.

Enough. All we ever want to be is enough. But the first time you realize you might not be in the eyes of someone else, you feel a little bit of that eggshell wearing away. It tugs at your heartstrings and cracks a tiny bit. Just a little, but enough to notice. 

The first time I realized I wasn’t enough, I was looking into their eyes. I could barely register the words falling upon my ears because my shell kept them out, kept them from physically stinging me. Their eyes were ablaze with disgust, contempt that I was breathing under the same roof, anger at my existence for disappointing them. I knew then that I could save the world from extinction, but I could never save them from resenting me. 

I think I’m scared of being by myself. I spent most of my life that way, inside my shell. I felt like it trapped me more than protected me. I also found that the more it cracked, the more exposed I became, wide-eyed and naked, an easy target. 

People don’t go around looking for broken shells–they come across them. I’ve learned that we will always choose to love the ones that hurt us most. Because we choose to hold onto the belief that the more we do, the more likely something will be different. And we go back to it because it’s what we know. The toxicity, the discomfort, the hurt. We’re used to it and we chase the cracked eggshell trail for the next high, next argument and next heartbreak. 

And we keep coming back, merry-go-around, begging to be better than last time, promising we’ll try harder to be enough this time. You’ll forget the stepping stone, the shell you couldn’t crack, and you’ll always leave her behind. 

I’m the one you left behind. Don’t you remember me? I was there. I listened to your dreams and your worries and your fears and your doubts. I soaked up your ambitions and pushed you out of your shell to confide in me and trust in me. I was there when she didn’t want you. I was there when you weren’t enough for her. You loved the idea of me. What about the actual me? 

The me that shuts down when something reminds me of my upbringing. The me that breaks down when a spiral hits. The me that isn’t always fully there because her mind is dissociating. 

But what does it matter because you never see it anyway. I fall in love with you all the same and every time I feel a bit of my shell break, I feel you drifting farther and farther out of my reach. 

I don’t care to admit how much you make me cry, How much you make me wish that my shell would crack open and set me free. How much I’d give for you to catch me in my free fall. How much I dream and dream and dream but can’t find the words to tell you. How can I admit all these things when I can barely admit them to myself?

Because no matter how many times you tell me you’re there, how many times you reassure me, you still won’t understand why I can’t let you see. Every time someone saw, they tried to fix me. When they tried to fix me, they gave up and never stayed. 

Maybe that’s my problem. Holding onto those that want so desperately to fly away to something better, something familiar, something stable.

I know that I don’t make sense. I’m not logical. I never will be. All I can tell you about my spirals is that I’m sad. All I can tell you about my panic attacks is that I’m anxious. It’s hard to give an explanation when I don’t even know. There are so many unknowns and I’m still trying to figure it out. Nobody has ever been patient enough to sit everything out with me. 

In the restless seas of my mind, it’s impossible to navigate the waters alone. My shell has helped me stay afloat for long enough but I know that I’m drowning slowly. The weight is too much to bear and when you ask me to share with you, I can’t. When given a chance to tell you what’s rocking inside me, I opt for silence instead, the voices inside careening against my eggshell. They’re loud enough to drown out the silence, but that’s only until I realize that they’re all in my head. I am too scared to let you hear. 

What would you think? A girl that cries for hours with no reason, scarring the tissues of her arm for relief. A girl unable to explain the fractured pieces inside her narrow frame from years of being told to stay quiet. A girl whose eggshell is so broken that she doesn’t have anywhere to hide. 

I just wanted someone to tell me that I was good enough for them because no one ever taught me how to do it myself. I know I don’t make it easy because you only ever get to see half, half of the girl I am, part of the broken shell I am comfortable showing. You see the smiling side, not the side that can’t get out of bed during the day. You see the talkative and pristine part, not the part struggling to form sentences together. You see the marketable Ella, the one whose shell seems strong and untouchable. 

So I’ll always get it. I’ll always understand that I’ll be the fallback option should the first one fail. I’ve learned to be okay with that. 

This isn’t to say that shells can’t mend. But cracks heal from the inside out and shells make you forget there’s a heart inside that can feel. The heart of a baby bird, delicate and waiting. 

Waiting for another baby bird to come along. A baby bird whose shell is also profoundly damaged, weathered and cracked like mine. Ready to fly away together, patiently letting me find my voice to sing. 

A baby bird enough to let mine spread wings and soar.