I love my life. I am blessed in more ways than I can count. I am in gratitude for everyone and everything that surrounds me, and for the lessons they bring.
But I am human. I have bad days. I experience heartbreak and loss. I cry and grieve. Writing is one of the most healing acts I have experienced, and in sharing my story ~ both the light and the shadow aspects of it ~ I hope that it encourages you on your healing journey, as well.
As I sit alone in my kitchen, here on New Year’s Eve, my body and spirit are exhausted, but my mind is incredibly awake. After counting down the last few moments of 2015 with my children and enjoying some delicious Golden Ale as we bade farewell to a year of transition and release, they have gone to bed and all is quiet. Now, the whispers that have persisted all evening have free range to scream and rage inside my head, keeping me from the sleep I am so desperately craving.
“Well? What are you going to do now?” my inner dialogue prods. “You can’t seriously be considering letting this go.” But I am. I want to hide my eyes and plug my ears and beg for those 2 minutes to be wiped from my memory, as if they had never happened. I want to unhear what I was told, and continue believing that I was enough. I want to pretend that I am wholly loved and honored. But I can’t. No matter how hard I try, I can’t fathom a day when I will feel that way again.
Today, I had my heart broken. And not just broken, but after holding the wounded pieces out in hopes of having them mended, they were instead knocked from my hands and crushed under the suffocating weight of ignorance and indifference.
At first, I was shocked. I remained silent while I attempted in vain to process and soothe the intense emotions that curdled in the pit of my stomach. Then I was angry. Still, I remained silent, and endeavored to dig deeper to figure out the source of my discomfort. The anger passed, and all that was left was a sickening feeling of betrayal and pain. The silence was broken with half-hearted attempts to spark a conversation from the dagger-thrower, but only out of obligation, not a genuine concern.
Finally, I mustered the courage to speak, albeit quietly. With an impatient and unfeeling grunt and dismissal from the other side, I managed to squeeze out several questions; none were questions to which I was sure that I was prepared to hear the answers. But I asked anyway. And was scoffed. And made to feel stupid and small for asking them. Yet an answer was never given. No denials, no confirmation. Everything I asked was completely overlooked, and every tear was treated as a nuisance and a waste of time. My feelings were not important, and I was wrong to have them.
This sense of betrayal has been gradually tightening its grip around my heart. It was difficult to smile while spending time with my daughters. It took every ounce of energy I had in my spirit to put on a cheerful façade, and shield them from the utter destruction of my heart that had occurred only an hour before. But I did it. I survived the night. And now I sit in the silence, listening to the deafening voices demanding answers that I just don’t have. My soul is limp and my light is dim.
But my heart still beats within my body. And for now, that’s enough.