It’s been a while since I’ve been on here. I tend to go in spurts of writing and then ignoring. Feeling and then pretending it doesn’t exist. Being emotional and then smiling it all away. Consistency has never been my forte. I don’t know why I’d expect any other parts of my life to be. I go between struggling to process it all. And pretending it didn’t happen. And then I even teeter a little on the notion that I made it way worse than it was and I’m just being greedy for attention. The poor me martyr. In reality, it’s somewhere in between all of it. It’s a whirlwind of all. And there are even moments where I’ve never admitted just how bad it truly was.
Something about me that I admit is my Achilles’ tendon: I see the good in things. To a fault. Usually to my fault. Not just in people. In situations as a whole.
They couldn’t actually have meant to be that cruel. They couldn’t have meant to hurt me. It was just the way I interpreted it. It’s my fault that I got my feelings hurt for no reason.
But in reality, it was exactly that. Or even worse than what I admitted. And that’s humiliating. And humbling. And infuriating.
The tough part about healing is when you forget to feel it in the first place. When your today’s beautiful reality outshines the pain of the past and you’re free. Until you’re not. That sneaky way that the tar of pain can creep in when you’re not watching and freeze you in your place for no other reason than to show you it can. There’s no warning. There’s no trigger. Just BAM against the wall of angst. And you’re frozen in the nightmare. And it doesn’t make sense.
That’s where I am. Trying to figure it all out. Trying to understand what the truth of the past was instead of the rosey tinted view I let myself believe in. And it’s hard. And it hurts. And it’s tricky and sneaky. And it makes absolutely no sense. My poor sweet husband. I wish I could explain it to him. He doesn’t understand. He wants to help. He wants to heal me. He wants to figure it out so he can explain it to me. But it’s muddy chaos. And constantly changing.
And it’s hard.
What if it’s not the fairy tales that save us after all. Maybe it’s finally realizing that the reality is, there is no such thing. The knowledge that fairytales are just the illusion we create to feel safe inside of when today is just too harsh. Sometimes, knowing that is what saves us. That I don’t need to wait on the knight to rush in. That there is no knight. That my own strength and determination and worth is enough. That *I* will save me.
It’s a strange feeling to wake up with the realization that you’ve been here before yet everything is different. The comfort of home without the reassurance or ease. The walls are faded and the lights flicker and you wonder how long you’ve been asleep, or if you’re even awake. Time plays tricks on your vision and you’re depth perception is uncertain. you can watch the reassurance as it fades into the shadows of the fan blades circling over head.
“Here’s the challenge,” he said with his back against the wall. “Do you run after life or do you stand up and live?”
There’s truth to the notion that you must go after what you want to fly beyond where you’ve been. But there’s also danger in running after something only to lose focus of the journey for the destination.
There’s a pendulum of awkwardness teetering to each side waiting for the tics to toc and the birds to sing. The snow falls into rainbows and the sun shines under the sea. Where nothing makes sense, yet everything works brilliantly. Questions become as irrelevant as their solutions. Lies become outsmarted by the truth. And the heart is no longer in sync with your mind. Logic tells you you’ll never win. But the wind whispers what your soul should have never forgotten . It’s impossible for you to fail. It always has been.
Photo by undecided-shoe
You’re vaulted away as if the sun is the antichrist coming for your soul. You’ve shut so many doors around you to keep everyone blind but it merely puts you in the cage of your own self hatred and insignificance.
You pretend not to notice the trail of your own tears and pray that no one else notices them either. But I do.
Your reflection is tarnished in the house of broken mirrors and your lost in the maze of self doubt and discontent. The shuffle of your feet attempt to drown out the screams in your head but it doesn’t work. Nothing does. You search for the man you knew you were but he’s not there behind you. Your hands are not familiar and your voice is not your own. The words drip like fire from your mouth but never make the connection to your heart and lay empty on the chair beside you. They fill the cup of the wrong well and the price is far too great to see past to your destination.
Breathe deep the cool wind from the broken window pane that promises relief to the stagnant room you’ve made your home in. Realize it is that brokenness that gives the renewal and the chance to inhale again. The price is not ideal, but not higher than your ability to collect and overcome the debts. There is magic in your veins and power in your heart. The world waits for no one, yet your heart demands it’s time. And so the world waits. For you.
Photo by cryingjune
Your shadow has faded. Your words hold no shelter. Your soul has no doors. Your eyes no longer remember.
And I no longer have the desire to remind you.
Art by Mark Demsteader
Its nearly as if The world spins on a different tilt when she is sad. The clock hand is sluggish. A dimmer output from the sun. Even the birds take on a lower flight path and their songs are dark grey. It’s as if the happiness of the world waits for her permission to continue. Her smile radiates such warmth and joy that it just doesn’t make sense to be upbeat when it is missing. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps the world will be bright and sing again. But today, we shall be gray with her. Folded into the lap of comfort and rocked.
Photo credit source
There are moments in life that the world seems to stop spinning. We struggle to cling to the gravity that held us to the familiar without admitting that we no longer recognize what we are afraid to lose grip of. We have wished and held so tight to the fragments of what we believe to be what is needed. The fear of letting go. And being let go of. Of testing your navigation mid flight. And feeling the spin of losing control. Or even the fear that the free fall is what you crave. That the knowledge you have and the feelings you desire will never align to match the picture you have so vividly captured as your goal. So we sit. In fear of going forward, afraid of looking back. Blind to the warnings along the way. And terrified of exposing our own insecurities and admitting our life isn’t where we want it to be. The familiar is now foreign. The courage required to step to the new path is exhausting. Where the promise of security and happiness waits balanced on the fence of the unknown.
What is your preference when you read a piece by someone. Do you want to know their meaning and the story behind their words? Or do you prefer to read it and apply it to your own story however it is applicable ? Does knowing the back story take away from, or add to the experience of reading someone’s work? I put an “about the piece” explanation in my post titled reflection. I’ve never done that before, but I felt I needed to explain away the vagueness for my own healing journey. I was going to continue the trend, but didn’t know if it was presumptuous to think it mattered beyond what you took from the words and how you built it to your situation.
Let me know! Just something I was thinking about this morning 🙂
Hope you’re all enjoying your Monday.
Photo by Valerie Morignat
The mirror never did quite offer the reflection she’d hoped for. No matter how far or close she stood. The fog from her breath offered little recognition to the frigid cold that had seeped in while she remained unaware of the change in her surroundings. To her, it was still spring, the freedom of the fresh warmth that allowed her to run without shoes. And the smiles weren’t stagnant or created from some bit of strength she now somehow always managed to find. The wind was at her favor and breathed with her. The sun embraced her face. And then she blinked. Grey. Cold. Winter had stolen her vision and muscle memory and she remained frozen in thought and unable to break from the sight of what was for what should be. Vines had tethered her feet where she’d stood too long. The veil remained tight and the reigns unnoticed until blisters had finally formed. And her hands where white from holding too tightly to what had been gone for far too long.
Wake up, girl.
To this beautiful space that you no longer need to occupy from habit. That your soul can release to its own recognizance and not to that which is deemed necessary by those who scream louder. Souls can be saved without the loss of your own, and the struggle to win will seem softer when the blisters no longer burn. There is freedom in words yet to be spoken, and healing in those that flew too easily from the lips of winter. Where Acceptance isn’t always weakness and forgiveness isn’t always acceptance. But the balance will always offer solace regardless of intention. It is not necessary to understand, and explanations are not required beyond your own urgency. Just stay. In your own foundation. Create your own establishment in a freedom that refuses to be corrupted by winter. Love with the inferno that blinds all who are incapable of understanding such. And apologize only for the wrongs you have done, and not those who have dismissed your pleads for approval. The fog from your breath proves only the life that you breathe. The fire from within that breaks through the frigid cage. The freedom remains, as it always has, behind your own eyes.
About the poem:
I wrote this right after I finally got the courage to say enough. I asked for a divorce of my husband (winter) of 13 years. I finally opened my eyes enough to the reality and dropped the mask I clung to of normalcy and happiness. The “Facebook” life. I kept my focus so positive and upbeat and lived the lie of “I’m fine” for so long I didn’t realize just how bad it had gotten. Just how far away from where I pretended to be we actually were. And it was a shocking revaluation. Even though it should have been obvious.
Souls can be saved without the loss of your own, and the struggle to win will seem softer when the blisters no longer burn.
This was in reference to my kids mainly. The reason I stayed for as long as I did. I was convinced (by my then husband) that I would ruin the kids and the guilt was referred to as the blisters of the reins he held on me. I knew then that once I could let go of the guilt, I’d be able to raise my children to know this wasn’t ok. To be strong. To understand love as the beautiful thing it was meant to be. And I didn’t have to die in his presence to do that. In fact, I needed to get out of that relationship to do so.
Love with the inferno that blinds all who are incapable of understanding such. And apologize only for the wrongs you have done, and not those who have dismissed your pleads for approval.
This was a big one for me. I’ve ALWAYS been worried about what others think. Their perception of me. And felt the need to explain everything I did. Ever choice I made needed validated reasons. And I’d apologize. For everything. Even when it wasn’t mine. In this moment, I gave myself permission to NOT explain my choices. To NOT apologize for things I hadn’t done. And to stop chasing approval of those who wished to condemn me regardless.
Photo credit Qwertthoughts289
She drifted in and out of the realization that this was all there was for her. Determined to make a name yet, afraid to be anything more than invisible. It was safe in the shadows she’d carefully formulated to hide herself at a moments notice. The light specifically spaced to shine bright only when others weren’t watching. She’d dance there and pretend there was a world that cared. A world that listened. A world that didn’t wait for her answers, but created new questions instead. She wasn’t afraid there. Wrong answers meant new adventures and possibilities for laugh lines. There was freedom in her movements and in her laughter.But the shadows came back around. The creases of her forehead revealing the frustration of her placement. And she wept. For the realization of who she was.
She was a book without a cover. The pages frayed and smudged from soiled fingers who handled her carelessly and left their marks. But her words were unharmed. Pure. Her heart was there in each line that went on for miles. Waiting to be read. Understood. Forgiven. Spoken. Loved. She pushed back from the edge of the cliff and slid back down the wall in the shadows. In the quiet. Her heart beat deafening and revealing her hiding place to he who would stop to read.
But he doesn’t. He scatters her thoughts with out consequence and tears the pages from the back as if to erase what’s been done. Where she’d been. Who she’d become in him. But He forgets The beginning is the best part. Too focused on where it ends to take joy in the lift off. Where your feet are floating above the gravel lane and your hands dance around his acknowledgement. Where indifference is non existent and boundaries are unheard of. Where hope lives and love overflows and the purity of it all is unbroken. The beginning is the key. And somewhere between seconds and all night lies the problem. Where it unravels. Where we begin to look for ways to escape from rather than ways to run away together.
The birds still carry their song in their wings and the clocks continue to chime. The wind dried her face and the shadows came back to view. The safety of her invisibility wrapped her in warmth and she smiled. And for now, That’s enough. But tomorrow… She will write her name in the stars.