Natalie Dormer | S Moda Magazine
“Still, I wonder. Why--how--have I managed to learn these things while others have not? Why have I managed somehow to leave behind at least for now what looks like wreckage, and shape something solid from my life? My prognosis, after all, was very poor. In idle moments, I still slide my fingers under the sleeves of my shirt and trace the raised white nubs of scars that track my arms from years and years of cutting. How did I learn to stop cutting and collapsing, and can I somehow transmit this ability to others? I don't know. It's a core question for me in my work. I believe my strength has something to do with memory, with that concept of fluid time. For while I recall with clarity the terror of abuse, I also recall the green and lovely dream of childhood, the moist membrane of a leaf against my nose, the toads that peed a golden pool in the palm of my hand. Pleasures, pleasures, the recollections of which have injected me with a firm and unshakable faith. I believe Dostoevsky when he wrote, 'If man has one good memory to go by, that may be enough to save him.' I have gone by memory."
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When someone has been abandoned a number of times, the cogs and gears that hardwire their brain clink and clank and grind until their metal casings become coarse with the wear of disappointment.
Disappointment, because the childhood friend decided one day that I was becoming someone no longer worth having by her side.
Disappointment, because the money meant to pay the month’s mortgage that my mother earned by serving tables was spent on booze and prescription pills by my unemployed father.
Disappontment, because the beautiful blue-eyed fourth-generation-college-educated girl that I’ve always deserved—sleeps at night questioning whether or not she has the emotional endurance to continue being in a long-distance relationship with a needy woman who appears to be needless in everyone else’s view.
Disappointment, because my dad wanted the family dog more than custody of his own children during the divorce negotiations.
Disappointment, because every Buffalo touchdown, every fantastical Tarantino work of butchery, every comic book, every video game—is a passion of mine passed down by my dad.
Disappointment, because everyone I love has left me—either emotionally (my mother sprouting a new family that I desperately try to love, but am always pushed to the outskirts as the one damned with having the wrong father), or physically.
Disappointment, because being abandoned is cliche and over-romanticized. You wouldn’t romanticize abandonment if you experienced it, the same way you wouldn’t romanticize suicide if you turned the back of your skull into a pink mist, leaving behind raw graffiti for the coroner to scrape off with cheap bleach.
"Even if you come home late and I’m already asleep, just whisper in my ear one little thought you had today. Because I love the way you look at the world. And I’m so happy I get to be next to you and look at the world through your eyes."
Theodore Twombly, Her (2013)