Jul 112016
 

I feel like I am being crushed by the world. My heart is broken. My soul a shadow that doesn’t want to be caught, possibly the only part of me that has escaped bondage and is truly free. I will never find a way to heal my soul or a Wendy to stitch it on.

I cry tears that only a dark angel dares to see, to wipe from salt stained cheeks. And I look to the sky and wonder if God is looking down at the broken mess of me. The unspoken broken a fiery light ablaze while I’m on scraped knees.

No one physical to pull me from the wreck, to rescue me from a tainted reverie. To cup my chin and stop the river of tears flowing from my eyes. To wrap their arms around me, hold me, bring me to life.

I want to walk from the shore into the waters deep. Feel the cold touch me, the sandy bottom moving between my toes, my hair floating along the waters top like a weed let go. I want to exhale deep and sit below the surface while my lungs scream for air that isn’t there.

Look out across the gently stirred water and see legs and feet and faces splashing and playing as I inhale deep below. I want the pain of the rush filling my lungs. To stare up at the sun dancing in a billion fragments across the waters top while what’s left of life slips further and further away.

I am alone.

I am tired.

I am running low on tears and high on fears.

I am broken.

Alone.

Undone.

Maybe someone will reach in deep and grasp my soul, breathe it back to life in a way I can’t. There is a resemblance of hope -that I will wake from this dream. But, you know what they say about hope… It breeds eternal misery. I would hate to have to be eternally miserable when I am perpetually miserable here and running towards every sign with the word “exit” shining red against white.

I am far from fine again. I suspect that even that nonchalance is too hard to grip longer than the fake smile when asked how I am doing. Oh, man, do you really want the truth? Didn’t think so.

I just want to be alone in my own thoughts, the prison that I have created and yet I don’t want to be alone at all because those bars don’t just keep me from getting out, they keep others from getting in. A comfort that covers body, not the roaming soul.

Life isn’t a gentle zigzag like a feather makes when it falls from the sky. It’s choppy, unpredictable, painful and a road I am tired of travelling.

So tired…

Jul 072016
 

They are just trying to build their lives, build their family, have children together alongside the ones that she brought into the relationship all those years ago. And while we aren’t close, at all, maybe seen each other a half dozen times since we were little kids playing cops and robbers with toy handcuffs, my heart is still broken for him, my cousin, yet again. He has had a rough few years.

He was in a plane crash that he narrowly survived a few years back, on that day I was complaining to my mom that everything smelled like fuel, she said I was crazy until the email came saying his plane had went down and that an old boyfriend of my aunts, from 30 years ago, had saw the rainbow on a small lake of fuel and being the nosey man he is he swooped down to get a closer look only to see part of a pontoon sticking out of the water with a body on it, my cousins body. The family friend, Jake, was in a plane too large to land and my aunt and uncle were on the radio trying to find their son when Jake called for someone with a small plane for help. Some American tourists with a small plane were able to make the landing in that tiny remote lake and help my cousin off that pontoon into their plane and back into the sky to meet the ambulance at the docks. His neck was broken, his thumbs nearly amputated from trying to pull the plane up when he crashed and chemical burns from him laying partly in the water with all that fuel and oil pouring out and burning his flesh away. Praise God his neck was able to be fixed and he didn’t suffer any paralysis or anything like that. A lot of healing though and it’s been probably five years and he still hasn’t got his pilots licence back, his thumbs have been the biggest problem.

Since then he has went on and continued with the woman who stood by him during all of that healing, and all the years before that, and they had a baby girl, named Aurora. Only, Aurora was born directly into the hands of God. They were trying to build a family and God is building Himself an army of angels. It was close to the due date for little Aurora when the placenta broke free and before they could get to a hospital the baby had passed and the mama almost did too.


Now its been a few more years since that happened and I had a vivid dream about a caesarean going very wrong. When I went to tell my mom about the dream she was reading an email saying Aurora’s little sister was also in Heaven. I didn’t even know they were expecting another baby, I guess when you have experienced the pain of losing one you might want to be hushed about another just in case. They had a scheduled c-section planned and their little girl whose name I don’t know, was moving fine and had no reason for concern, but when they arrived for their c-section they couldn’t find a heartbeat. They did an emergency delivery and couldn’t revive the baby. And another little soul was born right into the arms of God.

My cousin though? In his building a family and a career as a pilot and all of that feels like the world just keeps knocking him out of the sky and while I sit here and cry over a baby I didn’t even know existed until the other day when she was already gone he is struggling with drinking and drugs and finding any way he can to dull the pain of living, and living comes with a lot of pain.


And somehow my vivid dreams have always mimicked life. I have been accused of killing because I dreamed it, the first time at the age of 9 when my cousin took his life in our back yard, found splayed after three days missing, at the bottom of a cliff. I was blamed because I had said he was going to die about 3 months earlier when he had crashed a truck after my great uncles funeral, and that blame has never left me.

So when my cousin crashed his plane and I was being haunted by the odor of fuel and couldn’t figure out why until I got the news I felt like had I not smelled that smell that he would still be flying.

My dream the other afternoon during a nap about a caesarean gone wrong left me feeling like if I hadn’t fallen asleep, she would have been born safe and healthy and alive.

My sanity is lost and I have no clue where to search, and I don’t think I want to, because like I said, life hurts, especially when you blame yourself for things out of your control based solely on the fact that someone decided to place the blame on you when you were a child instead of accepting responsibility for their own child.

I have been a mess, I am a mess. I don’t know if I am coming or going and I have pulled into myself, far in because exposing the flesh wounds leaves me open to judgement and battle scars and frankly, I don’t have enough unscarred flesh left to successfully go to battle again.

So maybe I am throwing in the towel, or maybe it’s like the Mr. says and that I am not the cause of the problems, I just feel them and see them in a way that most people can’t. It’s hard to say, but I don’t know if I want to risk it. I don’t know if I want to get close to anyone or anything if all that I am going to experience is a painful hurt and a loss.

You see, you can build up walls instead of bridges to peace and you can be isolated and alone or you can build that bridge and put yourself in the cross hairs of the man with a fully automatic weapon. Maybe Trump is right with his wall. Maybe isolation is the best way to protect yourself, your body, your soul, your heart. Maybe if we all place that figurative wall around us the billions of emotions flying through the air won’t hit so hard, or at all. Maybe they will bounce off my imaginative force-field and leave me alone.

Alone with my thoughts, my anger, my depression, my sadness and hurt. Alone to wonder and hope and to pray and to hide. Alone to not love because if I embrace the olive branch then I am guaranteed that new pain will eventually follow.

Maybe some of us should be alone, because loneliness is what’s best for everyone.

Day 6 | Lost Pain

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Jul 062016
 

My brain isn’t getting along with itself and I can feel myself crawling inside while simultaneously trying to escape. I am shutting down. Pulling away. From what? I don’t know. I suppose from everything. Given my recent struggles with flashbacks and dreams and nightmares and not being sure about any of it, I feel like it is so much easier, and even necessary to slip inside my shell and allow this ragged hell to run its course.

Nothing in life, or death, makes sense anymore. I am done trying to put pieces together. The puzzle isn’t complete, or maybe I have the pieces to more than one at once. Darkness vs light. They say everything has an opposite. Can I be the opposite of myself? Do I want to explore the dark side of the moon or do I want to admit that even though I don’t see the dark side it doesn’t mean the light doesn’t touch it.

I suppose we all have our intimate spots and our dark sides. Is it bravery or stupidity that causes some of us to embrace them?

“And one sweet day,
you’re gonna drown in my lost pain.

Do you wonder why you hate?
(Our burning ashes, Blacken the day)

Are you still too weak to survive your mistakes?
(A world of nothingness, blow me away.)”

Jun 252016
 

Tears are the pain my soul displays when it has nowhere else to go

Pain are the words my soul speaks, the black shroud that makes the dimmest of stars blindingly bright

I’ve needed a rest from words lately. A lot of rest. I don’t know why, maybe because I was diving deep in search of words for so much of the winter and spring.

It is exhausting to go into yourself, into the darkened depths where you have everything chaotically stashed away in mounds that would give a librarian a heart attack. Much like the wall of post-it notes that only an author can decipher and turn into a grand story.

Only life isn’t a post-it and no matter how big they decide to make those sticky sheets it won’t all fit and the darkness will creep over like fog over a marsh when the mercury rises, blanketing over the muck with a reflective dew that disappears with the rising sun and somewhere along the broken road you place your hand in the palm of the Son who has risen and you simply rest.


And yet here I am with the thunder booming in the background and the lightening flashing down on a blackened earth and my fingers are tapping away the thoughts that linger in my head and fear greets me in places I had forgot existed and I wonder who I really am?

Am I the child that hopped from rock to rock over snail infested ponds to find a place to sit and soak up the sun, the child who looked at metal barrels laying in the water 20 years ago and wondered why someone would do that to the earth?

Am I the adult who see’s a saltwater tank and grieves the loss of corals and anemones and secretly blames Finding Nemo for the tang’s and clown fish being stolen from our oceans just to beautify someone’s home?

Am I the girl who prays for the whales and the dolphins and has considered jumping ship just to land in the Antarctic whale sanctuary to protest, protect and fight for the whales whose song often falls on the ears of poachers?

Am I the 16-year-old girl who found herself pregnant and madly in love with a child growing within or am I the mother of that child whose smile is enough to light up any room and whose tears threaten to drown me because her pain are the nails through my hands and feet, the spear in my side. The pain a parent must bare in a twisted way so that their child can be fully alive?

Is that how my parents felt? Is that what Jesus told Himself as He felt the weight of His flesh tearing him apart, the sweat stinging into deepened wounds as the sins of the world separated the darkness and the light causing Him to cry out to God, “Father, why have You forsaken me?” before the sky turned angry and His flesh became Spirit?

And then there is my son, the child who nearly drowned drinking water because his laughter got the best of him and the water rushed into his lungs and sent those watching into a near panic and as he told the story he tells me “I wondered if Darin knew the Heimlich, when he pushed on my belly I knew he didn’t.” And I wonder why I worry more about the girl then I do my boy. Is that how it’s meant to be? That the boys can brave this broken world in a brotherly solidarity where the desire to protect outweighs their fear?



A world where your lungs fill with water and moments later you are playing football in the grass with a fire burning down in the background and your laughter and the sounds of your mother and your sister chatting are what fills your world because the moment you drowned you were also resurrected with a lesson learned?

Did my child really have me in stitches on the clouded, stormy ride home and did we almost hit that blur of a deer that for all I know could have been a golden shrub? Did he really just tell me that 50,000 of my cells die every day and that over the course of 7 years every cell in my body passes and has been replaced with one that is new and fresh? Did he just tell me that a sunburn hurts because the cells are protecting us from cancer and committing suicide so they don’t mutate?

How did you become so wise young children? Where did you learn these things and when? Why is it that I see so much of myself in your love for everything and then sometimes I look at you and don’t see me at all?


I am proud of you, both of you. Because you aren’t me and because you are pieces of me that I never allowed to develop and grow. You take big leaps and tiny steps and go where the wind blows, color outside of the lines and walk against the grain all at the same time. You are far more brave than I ever was or ever will be and I am so happy that you aren’t me. That you walk your own paths.

I love that you embrace conflict and hurt and pain because as the saying goes “no pain no gain” and I want you to gain. I want to see you suffer because that leads to growth. I want you to fear because that leads you to cling to the One who alleviates the need. I want you to love fully and be passionate and chase your calling, whatever it may be, whether it’s the Antarctic whale sanctuary where you take on the poachers of the world, or into a mission field learning a new culture and language and sharing your own journey with the world in the name of the One who saves you each and every day. Maybe your dream is to be a mom or a dad and never leave this small town and you want to plant your roots down deep and firm.

Wherever you go, whatever you do, I will be in the cheering section while simultaneously handing you to God, because while this may be your journey, He is the one who holds the map.

Mar 242016
 

March 15, 2016

I feel like a bomb tick-ticking ready to go off, only without the always included count to say when. Instead I am simply like a live grenade whose pin has been pulled and been tossed into the black unknown waiting for the explosive light that is me to be shown.

I need to feel the slice of the blade melting through my flesh to expose my tortured soul. I need to see the blood drip-dripping to show me that I may be deprived of my conscience though my heart still beats. The dying crimson begging for air that it will never again receive.

Infuriated and frustrated with no excuse, begging for a resolution that will never come. I am undone. My hands with no bones even though I can type. Numb to a world I am not sure is there. Hidden like a stillborn and choking on toxic muddied air.

I don’t feel like continuing this brutal hard fight. It hurts the most in the dark of the night. I struggle to know the difference between wrong and right. I am surrounded by people and I am all alone, completely unknown, unwanted. Ashamed to not feel any shame at all.

I don’t belong here. Defeated and already gone far too long. I can’t remember what it was like to feel complete and it’s a game I desire not to play. What’s one more day? A future that holds no hope, a past that’s best forgotten and a nightmarish present that I can’t seem to escape.

That’s what life is – emotional rape. Where love is given and received while in reality its me being naïve, deceived. Can you believe and why should I? The false joy glistening on swollen lips, eyes begging up like a puppy wanting a prize only to be belted across rosy cheeks. Vulnerable, weak.

Tear stained cheeks and chains that only I can feel force me to crawl right back, promising to do better as the gag presses between my teeth to muffle my bratty cries. Am I your dirty secret or a naughty lie? Why can’t you answer me, why the hiding, the disguise?

I am sorry that you are the part of me that I lack. The rational that I cannot rationalize with on my own. The drug that fills my veins and keeps me eagerly awaiting my next fix, only to realize that the next high is never as good as the first and too much is an overdose I may not survive.

Withered, weathered, fallen like an unheard tree in a forest with no sound. Putrid decaying and the axe swings high, splintered dry breaks up the clear blue sky as I struggle to grip the edge of the jagged cliff while silently begging for the moss to just let me go.

Just. Let. Me. Go.

And the voice inside my head shatters my eardrums as it violently screams no. No you can’t leave, no you won’t go. No, I do love you. No, you are brave and strong and everything I need. No. No. No. And I don’t even crave the serpents slithering yes.

Life isn’t what I had expected. Not this tragic ending. I looked forward to the beautiful mess. My eyes are closed but for once I can actually see. The only struggle is, am I really me?

Feb 182016
 

I watched her twindling away and looking at my young son and calling him her own. The Alzheimer’s had eaten away at her memory and instead of seeing my dad as her son she saw her great grandson as her “Little- Lenny”.

I thought watching her memories fade would be harder for me. But it wasn’t. Then, I felt cold and even dead for not finding it anything more than amusing. Seeing her forget became interesting, and even laughable. I don’t cope well. I never have, so when she called to argue about the date or would call my grandpa an old pervert who had stolen her husband’s wallet I couldn’t help but laugh.

When she came to me concerned that the mirror was broken because it sometimes showed her an old lady instead of her young self I listened intently and wondered how much of what we see is real and what is simply distorted by our memories and time.

There is a lot in my life that I would love to forget. I think part of me envied that. Envy is a big word but that’s how I felt. Why are the strong turned weak, those who want to remember everything robbed of their memories and those who long for death seemingly trapped within the confines of life?

Feb 172016
 

The holes in my soul have been pulled battered raw and the words to speak are choked up in my throat causing me to drown on tears and fears while listening to my heart thump erratic and watch my veins pulse, begging for that crimson regret, orgasmic release.

Peace.

I am free. Maybe I should have started with that. Yet, at this time of year the bondage that once held me so tight grips my ankles and wrists with their phantom chains and life turns into fight or flight. My dreams are overwhelmed with the need to escape and I have to check the pill bottles and my wrists when I wake up to see if I had acted or if it was just another nightmare.

All I want to do is be productive. Check things off of the to-do list and go on with life like those 5 years never happened, it has been 11 years since my escape after all, but the thoughts don’t ever go away. Too many memories tied to that place.

While I yearn to write and vacuum and simply live my brain doesn’t want to remember and argues with my body to give in and sleep.

Random questions have been asked this week. How deep are my veins? Have I ever hit one? How much of ____ is lethal? I am not suicidal, on the contrary actually, I am really happy to be alive for the first time, yet those morbid thoughts from the past creep into my mind and I wonder how much grace God gifted me to keep me here -healthy, alive.

I may still be shot full of holes that penetrate my soul and scar tissue and scabs definitely cover some of those broken raw wounds, but my story isn’t finished. Isn’t told.

This year I don’t want to simply survive. I need to thrive.

And by His grace and through His love, I will.

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