My beautiful creature,
Although I am exhausted, tired, worried, scared and weeping from time to time, I'm not going to tell you about any of it. I just won't.
You think I don't see how you skillfully avoid my questions? How you hide behind words by steering the conversation ever so slightly? Not mentioning things that are clearly right there? I'm not stupid. I know at this point I am the embodiment of a spiral, of a twister hurricane, but that ain't going to work with me.
So today I'm going to do the same thing. I want to tell you a story. To shift the focus to the good. To how I see the raggedy, knarly Tom cat.
This story comes from a sad, disturbing, brilliant play The Pillowman. What I present here is just a retelling of it. My version. Something that helped one of the characters sleep at night. Something that sometimes helps me sleep. Something that reminds me of you - the part that you're not willing to accept without a fight. But it's ok. I'm not afraid of bruises, dear.
So let me start.
The story of a little green piglet
One day, a long long time ago, a piglet was born. On a farm that looked like all the other farms, run by a farmer who looked like all the other farmers, to a pig that looked like all the other pigs - from the beginning of time.
There was only one problem... A small peculiarity that no one could guess of forsee.
The piglet was bright green.
The mother pig looked puzzled. The farmer was dumbfounded. But here it was - a bundle of squeaks, curled tails and wet nose sniffs that was so bright green it almost glowed in the dark.
The piglet loved it. He'd run through the farm as fast as he could, pretending he was a light in the railway tunnel, and all the other pigs were trains passing though him at incredible speed, carrying stories of hundreds of lives. He adored being a little bit weird, not that there was anything wrong with pink, but he found being a little bit different quite pleasant.
That was never the case with the other pigs. They were jealous, hated him being green and made sure his life was miserable.
All this complaining and fussing about didn't sit well with the farmers. So they made a plan.
One night all the pigs were sleeping out in the open fields. It was quite beautiful - all the tiny, sparkly dots in the sky and just dreams floating above the soft heads of the pigs. The farmers waited with patience, and when everyone was asleep they snatched the little green piglet and took him to the barn. The piglet was squealing, and all the other pigs were laughing as the farmers opened a big bucket of very special pink paint. They dunked the little piglet in it until there was no spot of green left on his body, and held him down until he completely dried out.
What was special about this pink paint is that it could never be washed of and never be painted over.
It could never be washed off and never be painted over.
The little piglet pleaded to god, to anyone to stop this, to let him remain him, but it was too late - the paint has dried out and the farmers let him go back to the field. As he was slowly walking towards his favourite patch of grass, hearing all the pigs laugh around him, crying his eyes out, he couldn't understand why no one, nothing stopped this from happening. He wept, but no amount of tears could wash off the paint as it could never be washed of and never be painted over.
It could never be washed off and never be painted over.
And eventually he drifted off into a tired, aching sleep.
But that night, as all the pigs lay asleep, strange green clouds started to gather over the fields. The rain started - gentle and polite at first, it grew heavier and heavier, completely soaking the pigs in green water, heavy, thick, almost paint-like.
There was something else special about this rain.
It could never be washed off and never be painted over.
And when the rain stopped and morning came, all pigs awoke green. All but one, who was covered in the upaintoverable paint and now was the only pink being in the field. As the cries and laments started to sound around him, the little piglet thanked everything around him and smiled, because no matter what happens he knew that he sill was, and always will be, a little bit peculiar.
- - - - - -
I hope this helps. You are different. You might not fit, but it's ok. It doesn't matter. What matters is that you are beautiful, and you are kind, creative beyond belief, lively, warm, brave. And weird. But what's not to love there? Why should it make you any less worthy of love?
No one can paint over you.
Hear me now, my dear. Hear me.
No one can paint over you.