just below

Its bubbling just below the surface, so shallow its amazing that no one can see. Assuming anyone is looking to begin with.  It hurts to see he isnt looking, especially not at me.  I have to smother it, make sure it doesnt break the surface. 

This wound is so old and yet feels so fresh every time. I stand in this church and I mourn him still...22 years later. I try so hard to remain in the present to be supportive, be aware, be respectful to this man, to this family, but I'm 13 again and none of it feels real...again.  Like I'll wake up and everything will just be a dream. I go through the motions and I say all the right things but I dont feel real and my mind is not here.

I dont think I've ever learned how to mourn and it becomes more and more apparent every time I become trapped in those moments and those memories again.  It pulls me under as I try so hard to be the life support for everyone else. 

What happens if I cant keep fighting? If I cant keep us all above water?

And it seems so inviting to stop trying, to give in. And the waves of loss, regret, worry, fear, anger just push harder as they feel my fight fade. 

In case of emergency, ignore

I'm drowning slowly in the ocean of unanswered questions with no vest.  And they watch from the shore yelling directives that are as unnerving and impractical as the floaties they tossed on shore for me in case of emergency. And im spinning spinning spinning looking for direction or a hand to lead to safety, sanity, support to no avail. I drift out further, the shore a mere memory soon and my leaders long since gone. They cannot see and I have to wonder if they ever recognized my struggle or if maybe they were just taking in the view.  

The office was built on a cracking foundation and each step forward also entails several swift blows to the remaining supports. I have bent under the pressure and have watched several smaller beams give way, but held fast and strong in pursuit of what is right, what is necessary, what is true. But their multicolored glasses see not the cracks or severity of the damage but only the sparkling potential that will crumble just as swiftly when the last of us give way.

The dust will settle and they still will not see as they sweep us all under that rug that is so easy to distract, to ignore and eventually throw away.

My Audience

Set the scene for the audience
open my mouth to divulge my heart
Cue the music to this feeling
If I can decide where to start.

I have hidden in the shadows
Terrified that I may get caught
Hoping he won't notice this
Too scared to reveal the plot.

I've only released the edited version
Ensuring I carefully limit what he knows
If he knew the writer behind these pages
Would he still love the girl he chose?

Cue the mood music and careful lighting
Hide my intentions behind curtain calls
Distract him with the tiniest of truths
And hope the illusion never falls.

I feel paralyzed by these crippling fears
That i mislabeled this from the start
Im muted in silence by the realization
That he may not see beauty in my art.

The production changes without warning
And i briefly pray that he will go
But i desire so deeply to be seen
That i can no longer stop the show.

The script is spoken in full unedited glory
Reveals me in my darkest creative design
He sits in torturous uncharacteristic silence
Drinks in my words as if they are wine.

And the curtain falls
And the music fades away
And all that is left of me
Lies in tatters and disarray.

I cannot even look him in the eye
More than anything it is rejection I fear
But much to my surprise he smiles broadly
And quickly wipes away my tear.

And applause fills the enormous theater
Appearing to rise from each and every seat
But they sit empty, row upon row
And he is the only one on his feet.

My audience
My muse
My love
It's you.

It's taken me a long time to realize that I never let him all the way in. And now 9 years, a marriage, a child, and what feels like a lifetime later I wonder if it may be too late. Will he still love me when he sees these broken verses? Or will he feel deceived?

Beautiful burden

I'm not sure where to begin. I'm not the girl that used to fill these pages anymore. I look back and I remember these moments, I remember these words and the more I read the more I came feel those same... pangs.  But they feel different somehow. Like I'm reading someone else's past. And it is hard to describe how I'm feeling about it. Like I've lost someone important. Like I'm grieving. And I hate to even admit this but there are moments, tiny moments, where I miss it.  I miss the depths that those feelings reached. And I wonder...and I fear mostly...whether I have lost something I never took the time to cherish correctly.  As I have grown and matured and achieved so many things that I did not even know I wanted I miss the need for these pages, for this special kind of cathartic release.

I fell in love with that boy that I was so scared to let in...and he did not judge me. 

I let go of that boy that I was unsure I ever could...and I was able to breathe in a way I had not since we first met.

I finished school and I got the dream job...and i didn't fail.  I've been working for 5 years in a field that I am passionate about. I'm doing what I always hoped that I could. I'm helping people...changing the world one day at a time.

That boy that i finally let in got down on one knee and asked a question I was unsure anyone would ever ask...and I said yes. We got married and we have built a beautiful home.

And one day I made the decision that I was ready for more.  I'm a mother to a staggeringly independent tiny human that I cannot imagine ever living without.

The love that I experience now is new. And each day I wake up and I go about my day I don't feel like I need this anymore. I feel like just living is enough.

But there are moments. Tiny lapses in confidence and calm when I realize that my passion has been lost. Great art comes from pain. And my life when I was young was dependent upon that pain. It was expected. It made me who I was. And somewhere along the way I learned that suffering was the fuel for my writing. And I began to have a sick sort of relationship with it. Self sabotaging and angsty, but such a beautiful burden.

And when I sit down to write without it I cannot help but notice that it is mundane. That I cannot have both creativity and peace, or that maybe if I can it is not the creativity that I used to burn so deeply for. And the pain returns, just briefly enough for me to reflect on this.

Will I ever stop expecting the worst to happen...ever stop relishing in my disappointments and my doubts...ever stop waiting for a reason to run? Because even as I write this I recognize that is exactly what I'm missing.  I don't miss that look in his eyes when he realizes I'm not enough...or the crack in someone's voice when they prepare me for bad news...or that glance from a stranger that conveys both sympathy and disgust for my sadness. 

I miss those moments when I was pushed so far and so hard that I had no choice but to keep moving, keep fighting and show them that I would never give up. I miss having an opportunity to run and show myself what I could do.  The moments where I was tested and I came out wounded but no longer afraid. And I fear I will live my entire life holding my breath and waiting for that feeling to return.

But as I prepare for my evening discussing dinner prep and bedtime routines I feel...content.  and it hurts to admit that I miss the beautiful chaos that I grew to expect.

He is enough. They are enough. I am enough.

But can I sacrifice this?

1487

One thousand
four hundred
eighty seven days
since my words have felt
... worthy.
Since the words have felt
...clear. 
Since the words have felt
...necessary. 

I've thought of putting pen to paper
or fingers to keyboard
or phone so many times.
They havent quite felt
...ready. 
and as I type them now they still aren't
...enough.

I perpetually find myself here.
It used to heal me.
It used to free me.
It used to feel so constructive
to tear myself to pieces
to move on.
Now it stings.
Now it tears. 

One thousand
Four hundred
Eighty
Seven
Reasons to keep giving up.

I'm afraid that this part of me
got left behind.
Im afraid that everything that I used to have to battle this darkness has been lost.
And that now that it creeps in farther
I will be lost again.
And maybe even this time
...completely.

Will he see?
Can he?

My mouth opens,
but the darkness inside
has never ever
let me scream.

But, he saw me
...Once.

One thousand
Four Hundred.
Eighty
Six
Days ago.

Will it be enough to hear these silent screams?
Will he save me before i succumb
to the darkness that has been lurking for all this time waiting for this day to come.

I will always end up here.
And these words
will never quite be enough
for him.

Not even
And especially not on
Day
One thousand
Four hundred
Eighty
Seven
... and counting.

The unforgiveable destruction of illusion

Some days my heart aches in ways that are difficult to describe...difficult to even admit.  I stare at the ring on my finger and I feel so many conflicting emotions that it becomes overwhelming.  Love, unquestionable love and desire.  Hope, for happiness and comfort.  But also a deep and ever-present darkness...anxiety, worry, despair. 

I have stood here before.  Not here, it was very different.  I was...naive, gullible, innocent.  He was...deceptive, calculating, cold.  As more time passes the memory fades, both in importance and clarity.  I don't love him anymore.  I wasn't sure that would be possible back then. I was sure that kind of love was...inescapable.  That the poison would linger, that his thorned vines would continue to tangle...to strangle...and I would never be free.  Yet here I stand, "free". And yet I am caged, not by him or even his memory.  I now realize that the real prison was made by me.

He changed me.  What he did to me cut so deeply, so suddenly that I cannot pretend to be untouched, that I have somehow overcome the trauma.  He abandoned me.  He made me question my self-worth.  He showed me that people lie, and people manipulate, and that all people do not have good intent.  He tore apart everything I believed in and everything that I thought I knew was true.  And the hardest part is not what he did, but that I let him.

A lot changed after this.  Everything I believed in, everything I thought I wanted...it wasn't true anymore.  And a few years went on, and as much as I could I healed.  I dusted myself off, I stood on my own and I kept going.  And a big part of me believed that I had truly healed, that I was okay.

I see now that I am not.  I see the darkness within this sparkling symbol of love, of commitment, of promise.  And that crack in my heart pangs.  It whispers, it worries.

I'm not good enough.
I don't deserve this.
He can't love me.
I'll ruin it.
He'll give up on me.
I'll lose him.
...I'll never be what he needs.

And sometimes I feel like my soul is screaming at him...warning him.  Telling him that he has made an impossible promise.  Because he can't love me.  Not like that, not forever.  Because a long time ago someone broke forever for me.  He shattered it, and he left the pieces scattered... splintered... torn.

Is it wrong to want closure?  I have moved past love, and hate, and even regret. I am exactly where I want to be, but I am terrified that if I don't say some things out loud, if I don't get get some answers, that my heart may betray me.  Because this busted heart...it is so good at running.  So bent on escaping the inevitable.  Run before he leaves you. Run before he forgets he cares.  Run before he sees the fractures, the flaws, the tears. 

But I am so tired of running...

Why did I stop believing in forever? Why did I begin to question whether I could ever be loved, protected, respected?  Why did I give up on that white picket fence, bringing life into the world and for once feeling what family meant...real family? 

He asked me if I wanted to have children the other day...and I didn't answer. I couldn't...because all I could see was another's face that day at the jewelry store when he asked me to look at rings and joked about what we would name our babies.  I saw the illusion of hope in his eyes, and I remembered how it felt to be surprised...And also how it felt when the curtain fell and the truth was all that remained.  It all came back...the hurt, the pain, the disappointment, the disbelief, the doubt.  So, I in turn created an illusion, a distraction.  And I didn't tell him the truth.  The truth that I often doubt that others can love me, that I deserve to be a wife, a mother.  He made me fear love.  And while I can forgive what he did to me, that is something I cannot forget, something that I believe may be unforgettable.

And I think what upsets me the most is that I can't find the strength to share this with him. That I don't feel like there is a way to adequately describe these feelings and flashbacks that attack without warning.  I don't even see him anymore...not really. I see those emotionless eyes as he told me that he didn't love me, that maybe he never did and that he probably never could. I hear him tell me that he chose to share his bed with another because he knew that was the only thing that would push me far enough away.  I hear him chuckle heartlessly as I began to cry. And I watch myself almost in slow motion beg him to stay and feel the stabbing pain of being thrown at the wall and lose my breath as I watch him raise his fist at me.  And the emptiness consumes every piece of my mind as I am forced over and over again to accept that I broke every promise I ever made myself by allowing him to remain in my life after all of this.  My nightmare is more about how much respect I lost for myself than it is about what he did. 

The bruises have healed. The scars from the cuts have faded. But that feeling that I was not enough lingers...buried deep it festers and with just the right push it reemerges. Swallowing me whole and bringing me right back there. To that apartment. Bleeding and bruised and more alone than I've ever been.

But as I continue to look deeper at this diamond on my hand and I force myself to look at the man that was brave enough to offer it to me I know this is different. I know that this is real. The thoughts are so conflicting that I feel ripped in two. One half screaming at me to run, to save myself from more hurt. The other pleading for me to stay, to save me from myself. And this is all boiling under the surface as he smiles at me and asks me about my day. The unseen battle. The unknown war. And I smile and I tell him about my day and the screams they settle to mere whispers for at least another day.

And I try to believe that one day I might feel worthy of the love I see shining in the eyes of a boy that I know I may never deserve.

She often looks back and wonders when and how her life ended up like this.  As if there will be one glaring and obvious moment that changed it all.  Knowing full well that the truth is that she changes everyday, that we all do. 

She is a well-educated and intelligent woman.  And yet, she will not give up on the most unrealistic and fictional dream of them all.  She is smarter than she is allowing herself to be, but this is due entirely to the size and functionality of her heart.  She knows full well that her heart is not her emotional center (or anyone's for that matter), that this is merely a symbol and long-standing fiction.  But she does not give up.  She can't.  Because her heart hurts, and she cannot for the life of her figure out why.

She lives an honest life.  She works a 9 to 5 job, and in her own little way she does what she has always wished she could do, she changes the world.  She pays her bills, and cares for her dog, and she loves him.  And yet something is missing, something more than she has always known was not there.  She has lost a lot, but none of those losses explain the overwhelming sense of emptiness, of incompleteness anymore.  She has moved on and she has forgiven many, let go of so much anger and so much regret.  And yet she feels the pangs, the reverberations of the past.

She said once that she was a completer, that she was someone that made others whole.  She sees now that she may have gotten some of that wrong.  She lost...loses... pieces, so many pieces, along the way.  She lives on inside of their souls, those incomplete and broken souls.  And now as time passes she understands the price that she must pay for this.  The completer is both a blessing and a curse.  For she feels their pain, their loss, their regret and vengeance each second of each day.  And it has changed her, slowly, one soul at a time.

Looking back she cannot see it, the moment it all changed, for it never happened all at once.  It just was, and is, and will be. (Forever and) Always.  She feels for them, instead of them, so they don't have to.

So maybe she's not broken, or empty, or lonely.  She feels all of this, all at once, and it is nearly incapacitating, overwhelming, heartbreaking.  And some days she wonders if she can go on, but she knows that she will.  Because this is her life, and this is her purpose, and if she was not this then really what would she be?

A 20-something girl that could have saved the world.

She will be the same person she has always been, or she will die trying.  Die happy and at peace knowing that she never gave up, not on herself, and not on the world.

Because everyone knows this world could use a bit of saving.