I’m always downgrading myself, my pain, my wisdom, my experience, my need, my value. You name it, and I’ll tell you it’s no big deal. Only, right now, life doesn’t feel like no big deal. It is heavy and bloated and sinking within my chest, and without check. I suppose this is what God is for, and what a therapist is about, and what friends are waiting around to be gracious about. So, why can’t I give any combination thereof any amount of this burden…or even a hint that it’s weighing me down?
Is it pride, this feeling–this fearing–that no one can or should take me on?
Is it self-sabotage to know you can’t breathe, and just keep gasping and grasping at straws in the form of television reruns instead of resting in your relationships?
Is it some other thing I can’t put words to because it’s just part of my wiring?
All I know is it’s not what I want today. Today, I want to cry about losing my mom until my eyes are as dry as this season I’m in. Today, I want to scream until God heals the wounds of mental illness spread among the generations of my family. Today, I want to melt away just long enough to come back together a better mess than I am right now. Today, I want someone to see my pain and not be shaken by it, not attempt to word it away, or offer comfort that means nothing to me. I want someone to cry with me and tell me this is all shit. I want outrage on my behalf, and I don’t want to turn it away by keeping it all together, or at least hiding it all under the heaps of time and distance between me and everyone and everything I love.
Instead of pursuing any bit of that, I’m typing because I at least need to say these things aloud…as aloud as a blog no one reads can be, anyway. This is a step toward not just letting it take me out. I may not be ready to call a friend, but I am ready to admit I have friends I can call. No one will shatter under the weight of my heartache but me. That sentence alone feels like a start.
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