What words can do
“I wish I took up less space in the universe.”
This was anonymously sent to my blog by a reader some time ago. I did not know how to respond despite the fact that I kept writing poems about recovery and how to cope with depression, anxiety, trauma, abuse and other experiences that make a person feel as though a great white shark is eating their chest, a mountain is sitting on their collarbones, and cobwebs are coming out of their mouth when they try to utter words. Words that, nonetheless, could make them feel better for an hour, or a day, until they realize that there is a way out, there is a way to breathe. And that is by speaking, and having someone truly listen.
But if that person is a stranger, how can you make them feel a little less of what is too much? Words, as easy as people may think they are, are one of the hardest units of living things I chose to deal with every day. And so far, in the English language there are about 250,000 words in usage. But that anonymous message, comprised only of 10 out of thousands, bothers me more than anything else.
Growing up, I was consumed with the idea that everything that breathes, and forgets that it can breathe like a candy wrapper or my mother’s vase, has a purpose. A story. A little poem in them. That if a powerful being created something as beautiful and as tragic as this universe, it was for a reason.
Within this reason is the conglomeration of every purpose of these little things combined—what your eyes can see, your fingers can touch, your throat can swallow, your mind can think and feel—and more than anything else, You entirely, as a person. As someone who deserves to take up space.
Danielle LaPorte, author, blogger, and motivational speaker, once wrote: “So much is because of you. Consider everything you have ever been thanked for. Every photo you have been in. Every corner you have turned. Every time you have signed your name. Consider that you radiate. At all times. Consider that what you are feeling right now is rippling outward into a field of is-ness that anyone can dip their oar into…”
Consider. When you think your hands are holding too many rocks but you are still afraid to throw them back to the sea, consider letting go. When your spine feels like an old folding chair hidden in the dark, consider that you still have light within you because it’s always there. When your mind is tired and your thoughts are piled atop each other, consider all the things you have imagined, ideas, decisions and philosophies you have made sense to. More than anything else, consider that you are here.
And your existence is nothing small or insignificant: “…You are felt. You are heard. You are seen. If you were not here, the world would be different. Because of your presence, the universe is expanding.”
Kharla Mae Brillo, 20, is a psychology-literature graduate of the University of the Philippines Visayas. “Some days,” she says, she “forgets to eat actual food when chewing poetry.”
