Wednesday, March 11, 2015

The scars speak…


 She paces back and forth in front of a large picture window. It’s one of those times when she REALLY needs to talk to someone. At this exact moment, the support of a close friend could make all the difference in the world.

 Then she remembers she’s spent the last month pushing everyone away. Shutting people out of her life seemed so much easier than keeping up happy appearances.

 Instead of burning off the excess energy, the pacing is only making her more agitated. She plops herself down in her desk chair and yanks open the laptop in front of her. Perhaps messaging a friend online will help…

 Then she remembers she’s spent the last month pushing everyone away. Shutting people out of her life seemed so much easier than keeping up happy appearances.

 She slams the laptop closed and goes back to her pacing, ending up in front of a mirror. Staring into her own eyes, a feeling simultaneously twists her guts while sending icy chills down her spine.

 This is it – the moment when everything either snaps one way or the other. Either the grief will take her or the numbness will. This is the is the moment she finally admits the truth – she’s in crisis.

 And she’s never felt more alone in her life.

 She walks back to her desk, thinking maybe she’ll write. Over the last 3 ½ years, this has been her life raft; the one thing that’s kept her honest with herself and safe in the knowledge that she wasn’t alone.

 As she stares at the blinking cursor, her stomach knots up again. Instead of remembering the comfort of sharing, she only remembers the pain it’s brought. There have been friends who’ve walked away, acquaintances who’ve recoiled from her truth and the inescapable anger over these perceived betrayals.

 The funniest part is, it doesn’t matter if these people betrayed her or she betrayed herself, the outcome is the same: she’s become terrified of writing or even speaking about anything that can’t be made into a joke.

 The cursor blinks. Once more, she slams the laptop shut. As she sits there staring at the backs of her hands, her focus ends up resting on the lighter colored areas of skin. These are the scars from years past. The scars she hides with bracelets and long sleeves. The scars that are part of her secret shame.

 A slow smile creeps across her mouth and she heaves a deep sigh as a different thought takes form. Suddenly, the scars seem…more than embarrassing colorations to be hidden.

 Right here, right now, they begin to whisper to her. They say she’s stronger than she thinks she is. They tell her she’s a survivor. They remind her that, even though things can occasionally seem hopeless, she hasn’t added any new scars in years.

 They point out that they can serve not as a reminder of times of weakness, but as a promise that the pain passes and the internal screams will once more give way to external laughter.

 The scars are neither badges of courage nor brands of shame, just part of her landscape that stands testament that things WILL get better and the tide of pain will soon ebb back out the way it flowed in.

 She stands up and walks back to the mirror. As she stares deep into the eyes reflected by the silvery glass, she thinks she notices something that was missed before – maybe a glimmer of hope…


6 comments:

  1. Thank you for sharing and opening and speaking for all of us who don't have your way with words.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thanks Kerra. I just wish none of us ever felt like this.

      Delete
  2. I should have gotten you to write my "Adios" post, Chris.

    This is mighty damn great!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thanks Toby, but I wouldn't have changed one word of your post. (Unless I could magically take away the pain behind it.) *hugs* my friend.

      Delete
  3. This is a powerful post. I could relate to quite a bit of it. Thanks for sharing!

    ReplyDelete