Broken Chords of Pain
A personal essay that revolves around love and betrayal — from Chidera Chinedu
“I used to float, now I just fall down. I used to know, but I’m not sure now, what I was made for”
- Billie Eilish
You see me. Maybe not all of me, but you see me still. I am yet to fully see me too. I used to see parts of me — the wrong parts, I think. As I lay with my limbs settled haphazardly on the bed, my eyes glassy, my focus caught somewhere between the clouds and the wind, you can sense it…the feeling that envelopes me.
This is one of those moments when I want some form of disarray within me. A longing to be here and elsewhere, a pull to fall into multiple realities. I want to experience distortion in its purest form, a breaking apart of flesh and soul, then a putting together — stitch by deliberate stich, after I am satiated from what it means to be free.
“Think I forgot how to be happy. Something I’m not, but something I can be”.
-Billie Eilish.
I am trapped within a cage of flesh. Like Gollum, I am lost between my thoughts and the wretching voice. Break Free! I am constricted by sublunary limits, I have been drawn into a fog by an otherworldly spirit. It began with a little tap dance. It has transcended into a ballet dance set — a Pas Des Deux¹. It twirls me around, sets me down and maintains a firm hold on my waist, keeping me steady.
I have drunk from the cup of mortality. The transcending is like a cup of water after a long night of steady booze.
You find me with my back on the cold, bare floor, my legs stretched on the wall, arms folded on my chest. I stare back at you but you know I do not actually see you. I have been waltzing with the spirits again.
You know me…maybe more than everyone else does. You have uncovered my lies, so I lay bare in your eyes. Like death, you can not be cheated. So, now I have nothing else to hide. You are familiar with my rage. Venge is easier to handle than pain. My first encounter with pain was like ordering one tequila shot of confusion.
First, disbelief. Then, a turning inside out of emotions. The tremors usually came like a surprise, sneaking in through the backdoor but leaving you shaken. I wondered what I could do with a handful of strange emotions. I hear there is only a very thin line between love and hate. I am at least familiar with one. I have felt love with my mother.
You would think, it is only fair to say that because she birthed me. Many children have lived their lives full circle and had no reason to recognize their mothers as anything but merely their carriers. You have heard me say once that I could die for her. You do not take notice of the solidity of my words. You ask me to imagine. If someone kills mother in a bid to kill someone else, would I let God be the judge?
I would wear Karma like a second layer of skin. She would sink into my pores. Our identities will mingle to become one. Our feet will tread to the home of the unlucky. We would try his abode by fire and sit on the pavement right in front of the unlucky’s house, while the screams of burning flesh soothed my grief.
Would you still love me if my words truly matched my actions? If I promised to burn down walls for you and you knew it wasn’t all talk, would you stay? If there is only but a thin line between love and hate, then there is no limit to what I could be for you. Is it scary if it is too real? It would not be insanity, if it is love.
“When I see you again, as a stranger or a friend, I will give you a kiss from the past.
I will send you away, hoping you’ll be okay, with a piece of your heart living in mine.”
- Aurora
While we hold hands, I ask you what happens when you’re bored of me. Tired of watching a perfect porcelain doll slowly age into a shelved toy. I know all the answers you would tell. I’ve heard them a hundred and eight times. You stare right into me and repeat the lines a hundred and nine. I am unsatisfied.
What if you’re repeating a familiar jingle. What if you’re singing your favourite song. I dig into my insecurities. I feed them life. You see my mind doctoring thoughts. You throw your head back and laugh. Slight wrinkles are beginning to show when your eyes squeeze in happiness.
You say words that put my clockwork mind at a pause. ‘I guess the store owner is one old man with two shelved toys’.
“The word confidence comes from the Latin word ‘confidere’ which means to trust.
In confidence
Told in confidence
In trust
Told in trust”.
Will you be here when I return? I mourn your absence when the wind drags by. A reminder that unlike the first days, you are not by my side.
Na Money, by davido and The Cavemen is hitting at unhealthy volumes in my ears. I am moving to the beat, but it is not the easy glide you know me for. It is heavy, bones moving in slow patterns, like it is molten lead.
My spine refuses to bend, my ribcage continues to contract. My breathing is hitched. My chest is tightening. My lungs are closing in on themselves. I can not escape the words that seem to never stop magnifying.
“Keep her talking.”
“It’s a trap.”
Your treachery is a long dark bluish scar that scales from the cliff of my shoulders across my spine, down to the curve of my waist.
“Sometimes, I can’t help but feel like my body marred my soul.”
- Lana Del Rey
I took you to my creek, swirling with liquid gold, glittering. This is where I stand and dance. This is where my arms stretch wide and seem more pliable. This is where I leap and turn, cartwheeling over brightly coloured clouds. This is where my laughter does not seem to come out strangled and strange.
Here, my laughter does not come out like broken chords of pain. You see the lights bounce off my skin. I see you glow under my sun. This could be our Eden. This is my only hold on sanity and I have given you a piece of it… to do with it as you deem fit.
They say there is a new resort in town. They say there are circus performers and hilarious sights. They say you should go there if you want to have a hearty laugh. What do I have against a hearty laugh? So I yell, “Go on, love. Your happiness is all that is right with the world!”
I watch you drive off, your hair billowing in the wind, hands flailing in the air.
Your happiness…is all that is right with the world.
Why do I find you at my creek, dressed as a tour guide. A hat and boots to complete the ensemble.
“Here is where her happiness runs free. Isn’t it a golden beauty?”
The men slap each other on the backs in good humour. The women giggle and whisper animatedly to one another.
“Here is where her confidence grows true.” You say this while you point at my orchid field. Your tourist walks around in keen interest. How wonderful it must be to be a front row spectator to someone’s vulnerability. A treat for your viewing pleasure. Yours and that of your tourist are tucked safely hidden, behind sweet smiles, guilt offerings, a compliment or two.
“Oh, do not touch please. This exhibition is a one time special. No pictures. No phones.” Treat my parts like artefacts. Place them in glass boxes and let your tourist wonder what this could mean. Give them something to figure out. This is just what you need.
You walk around proud. Shoulders, hitched high. Jaw, firmly set. The esteem of a skilled artist like yourself, donned like an expensive tuxedo. You are the beloved, after all. There is no one like you. When the tour is over, you walk right through the crowd. They tear apart for you as easily as foil paper. A pat on the back, a hoot of support, a round of applause for the talented artist.
“You have done well.” The approval you so desire. The accolades you so deserve. You usher your tourist out. The exhibition has come to an end.
“Oh sorry, I too wish it would not end so soon. We will do this another time. I promise you.”
You shut the doors and tuck the keys in your pocket. A satisfying smile on your face.
I walked into my creek tonight. There were footprints on my soil. An orchid or two was plucked out. I found some of its petals at the entrance, crushed, laying flat in a foot print. The streamflow trickles slowly. What was once a golden pool is now a little patch. The weeping willows with its branches swinging close to the earth has been cut. Its sap drops like invisible tears.
There is a discarded wrapper of gum in the grass. There is hair caught around the orchid stems. There is an empty can of perfume in my golden patch. I have changed the locks to the creek. I dig a hole into the dirt and bury the old keys.
I would have to spruce up my creek. I do not know how long that would take. I have never needed to do any sprucing.
Will you be here when I return? I mourn your presence when I sense a whiff of your scent in the wind. I am dancing to a beat and I am slowly beginning to find my glide in the rhythm.
- Pas Des Deux — a metaphor for a complicated relationship between two people.
Chidera Chinedu is a writer from South East, Nigeria. She loves to write about matters of the heart and the mind, emotions rarely spoken of in regular conversations. She loves to read fiction and personal essays while pretending she is not falling apart from getting her degree in English language and literature. You can connect with her on Twitter @derafaithful.
