Sep 2013
There are many things I cannot speak aloud, but writing about my fears, anxiety, and sadness seem to bring me closer to them. Seeing them on paper somehow makes them more real. I don't know why that is. When something troubles me, I seem to bury my words in a hole and cover them. My emotions are too strong and highly strung for me to word them sufficiently at a moment’s notice. My brain is not equipped to process the instantaneous rawness I feel. Wonder what is wrong with me and I will be unable to tell you, my mouth will remain silent. Even though my mind is screaming at me, my tongue will cease to work. I'm unable to voice my thoughts, unsure of the purpose. But writing, seeing my thoughts on paper, allows me to voice my opinions and insecurities with confidence and with purpose.
I have always been private about my grief and my feelings because I did not want to show I was weak. It is a force of habit to keep secrets, a habit I developed long, long ago. I was never one to trust easily, I never let my guard down. I was not always silent, but no one heard me. There was a time when I was a child crying and needing my mother's attention, but I never had the courage to ask for it. I never got to the point where I felt I had the right to ask. The same holds true of me now.
But through my writing I can guide through the rooms of my past. And I can allow you to see the shame and embarrassment on my face as we step around the images of the memories best forgotten. I can pick up the harsh old photo albums full of black and white pictures, faces you have yet to see, words you have yet to hear, memories I have yet to remember. I need help prying open the leather bound covers, seizing together stubbornly, trapping the faces of people and the images of times I try to forget. The photos reveal my family, everyday achievements, insane images that make me recoil, morbid times that fill my eyes with tears.
And as I continue to write my thoughts, I hover at the shrine of those in my life, their own set of memory albums and images project through me. I recount their loss, their story, and salty tears swim down my cheeks. Tears of sorrow and rejection tears of pain and suffering. I sometimes feel my hands tense, my muscles go rigid, I sob in self-pity but then smile remembering that they are just that- memories, never to be relived. At times the air is thick with raw emotion, vulnerability on the highest level.
I don't count myself lucky for all that I have lived and seen. At times I feel all rationality and normalcy slip through my fingers like sand pouring through each digit; the air thick with uncertainty and indecisiveness. And yet, the grass still grows, and the sky is still blue. My words still have meaning and beauty still exists. But my silence overwhelms me, forming words no longer achievable. I should be able to walk away, but the fear of not knowing what may be waiting for me is too much.
As I walk along this road, curves and crossroads slow me down and thoughts of past experiences flash before me, panic settling into my chest. I try to live for today but what about tomorrow? How can I stand tall enough to see the future when the barricades of yesterday haunt me into submission? I step forward, my mind temporarily strong, until the point when the nightmares of the past wash me in dread and nauseating self-doubts. The past creeps up behind me, its cold breathe breathing down my neck, paralyzing me. Occasionally I feel someone grab me and guide me, the grip of their fingers giving me strength and certainty. And spirits are lifted to see beyond my past, and I know where my road leads.
Someone once told me life is about faith and second chances. I believe that. And so I try to keep my eyes focused on the sky so I can see the sun when the clouds separate. Then the torrential rain of my inner turmoil will stop and it will cease to drench me in pain, and I will be dried in a towel of contentment.
Someday......
I have always been private about my grief and my feelings because I did not want to show I was weak. It is a force of habit to keep secrets, a habit I developed long, long ago. I was never one to trust easily, I never let my guard down. I was not always silent, but no one heard me. There was a time when I was a child crying and needing my mother's attention, but I never had the courage to ask for it. I never got to the point where I felt I had the right to ask. The same holds true of me now.
But through my writing I can guide through the rooms of my past. And I can allow you to see the shame and embarrassment on my face as we step around the images of the memories best forgotten. I can pick up the harsh old photo albums full of black and white pictures, faces you have yet to see, words you have yet to hear, memories I have yet to remember. I need help prying open the leather bound covers, seizing together stubbornly, trapping the faces of people and the images of times I try to forget. The photos reveal my family, everyday achievements, insane images that make me recoil, morbid times that fill my eyes with tears.
And as I continue to write my thoughts, I hover at the shrine of those in my life, their own set of memory albums and images project through me. I recount their loss, their story, and salty tears swim down my cheeks. Tears of sorrow and rejection tears of pain and suffering. I sometimes feel my hands tense, my muscles go rigid, I sob in self-pity but then smile remembering that they are just that- memories, never to be relived. At times the air is thick with raw emotion, vulnerability on the highest level.
I don't count myself lucky for all that I have lived and seen. At times I feel all rationality and normalcy slip through my fingers like sand pouring through each digit; the air thick with uncertainty and indecisiveness. And yet, the grass still grows, and the sky is still blue. My words still have meaning and beauty still exists. But my silence overwhelms me, forming words no longer achievable. I should be able to walk away, but the fear of not knowing what may be waiting for me is too much.
As I walk along this road, curves and crossroads slow me down and thoughts of past experiences flash before me, panic settling into my chest. I try to live for today but what about tomorrow? How can I stand tall enough to see the future when the barricades of yesterday haunt me into submission? I step forward, my mind temporarily strong, until the point when the nightmares of the past wash me in dread and nauseating self-doubts. The past creeps up behind me, its cold breathe breathing down my neck, paralyzing me. Occasionally I feel someone grab me and guide me, the grip of their fingers giving me strength and certainty. And spirits are lifted to see beyond my past, and I know where my road leads.
Someone once told me life is about faith and second chances. I believe that. And so I try to keep my eyes focused on the sky so I can see the sun when the clouds separate. Then the torrential rain of my inner turmoil will stop and it will cease to drench me in pain, and I will be dried in a towel of contentment.
Someday......
