Tales of Truth

Ten years old: my mother told me tales I never thought were fragments of truth. She read stories I never knew were untold traumas. She spoon-fed me not only with lessons and morals but also warnings—"’ always close the door and never let the wolf in even if he will sound alike…’” my mind wandered as I remember what she said, "’ even if he will sound like home, even if he will sound like comfort.’" She hid a secret message to never let my guard down that a wolf will always be a wolf, and so as the other tales that I should not wait for a prince nor a knight in shining armor, and must outwit wicked witches before they outwit me.

Seventeen, and the past seven years became a painful blur. The irony on how everyone experiences being lost but not everyone experiences being found, as well as how easy it is to get lost, how fast it is to get broken, but so difficult to find a path to walk forward, so slow it is to heal and to rebuild what has been ruined. My mother told me tales I was so foolish to not understand not until I experienced it beforehand.

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First were the wolves that lured me. I gave everything I have without knowing how it would cost me now. The trauma of so-called friends shape-shift to their true form: abusers who haven’t done me good and true. I let them hurt me because I thought it was alright to be mocked and shamed by ‘friends’. I gave what they wanted just to fit their standards. I unknowingly let myself be a feast to the wolves, and how fast I got destroyed is how paradoxically slow the process of healing has been.

Second were the princes and knights in shining armor I let myself believe they were real. I met boys who acted princely, who wore decency, and who saved me that became a flint to ignite the false hope here in my heart. Those moments I let myself believe that fairytale could exist, moments were I became easy to blush, the false-fire warming my heart, moments I did not know I am only like wood and the fire could consume me whole. I became too dependent I forgot how to stand alone, indeed I was all alone, the princes and knights were not really real, so I fell without no one to hold to because I became weak of waiting when I should never wait for them. I was a fool.

Third were wicked witches who looked dearly and innocent I never knew would use me and poison me with their words. They could be friends, best friends, sometimes your relatives, and even could be your sister’s mother or brother’s father. They were casually cruel in the name of being honest I did not dare to mind the hurt. They told me I was ugly, and they still used me to be compared. I was needed for the worst and never good. Evil witches who gave me apples with threats. I was young and will never know the difference between a poisonous apple and what is not, I was young, hungry, and desperate without a mother. They will give you food in exchange for yourself, they will let you live but with an exchange of a rope in your neck. Moments I asked myself if it wasn’t a fairytale then what was it? But witches outwitted me and I know in those very moments it could not be a fairytale, I was suffering and all was real.

Seventeen, and the past seven years became a painful blur. It remained painful in spite of how stronger I become. Because I remember what my mother told me about trauma and healing. They are not alike, they contrast, and people around us have wronged to combine them both. Traumas do not make us stronger, surviving is. Surviving what have the wolves, the wrong belief, and the wicked have done. With foolishness comes the regret to make things better and right.

My mother told me tales

I finally knew were fragments of reality,

When she told me to be wise

About my senses that could betray me,

When she often leaves me for months

That taught me to become independent,

When she gave me books and paints

To focus on molding my soul and worth,

For there are two sides of the books

I should have known better,

Nevertheless, now I know

I was a fool but I am now wiser.

Renésmee Neverfound

An aspirant writer and artist. To be found is my greatest dream and never be lost. Hi, I am @rene.neverfound, you can call me Rene or Esme if you like. I specialized in prose-poetry and poetry, and now I am trying new things and writing styles. I love learning! I am a 17-year-old girl living life in the Philippines. I am a total bookworm and a grade 11 student with an undying passion for writing and art. Having many dreams is a funny mess because I get confused most of time with regard to what course should I take in college. I want to be an astrologist, a doctor, a journalist, an author, a professional artist, an archaeologist, and many more I forgot to remember while writing this.