I open my mouth and the words won't come out, they're buried somewhere inside me, a vast graveyard that lies unmarked and readily forgotten. I'd rather forget. You'd be better off behind that blindfold; I don't want you to see. I don't want to hurt you…I'm broken, and this flight parallels all we wish to leave behind…but it will catch us. I can't run fast enough and endurance is lacking. I'm void of the defiance required to fight this off, I'm so drained by the constant façade. Yet, I could never collapse into you, I could never stop. I wouldn't know how to end this. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for all the pain, the disappointment, the lies, and the shame, for being the dirt under the rug. Sweep aside all the complications of my life so that it appears presentable. I know you never meant it like that. I never meant to be this way, but you don't even know it. It's a whole different world that lies undiscovered by you, and I prefer to keep it that way. I don't think you'd understand, and I don't want your sympathy. I don't want to be the little child in your arms, I'd rather cry alone…and I don't know why. These tears are ungrateful, are they not selfish? Are they not wrong? What more is there, what's left? I don't want to do this, I just want to forget. To erase the blur that leads up to here, that's all it is after all. A dark blur that plagues my memory and my heart. I love you…and so I can't tell you, I won't tell you. I'm sorry. "To tell or not to tell, that. Is the question."
Oh, I remember that day. That flight. My family had moved to Moscow, Russia to be missionaries my sophomore year in high school. I stumbled upon cutting when I was twelve, and the pain of being found out kept my new addiction dormant for years. It didn't resurface until we moved. The Florida heat didn't offer much cover for a cutter in the middle of the summer. Russia, however, was a place for sweatshirts and coats, and layers, and hiding. I drank with a vengeance, and punished myself daily. I carried around the burden of hiding my silent struggle from my parents because I felt guilty. I truly believed my feelings and emotional well being paled in comparison to God's will for my parent's life. Who was I to make them feel bad for it? What good would come of sharing my heart? I kept it buried in bottles and blood for nearly two years before the desperation kicked in. I didn't want to live like that. I wanted more out of life but I didn't know how to get it. I was stuck. I needed a way out. I flirted with suicide in the following days before finally turning to my parents and admitting I had a problem. My confession came as a shock, and was met with love and concern. My family prepared to move back to America to get me counseling…
If I could speak to that girl, the old me, I would tell her that she wasn't charged with taking care of her parents. That they could handle it, that nothing she could ever say or do would make them love her any less. In trying to "protect" my parents from myself, as I thought I was doing, I was really hurting them, and myself, more. As much as the "Mom" and "Dad" I grew up knowing were superheroes, I also had this mindset that they were weak, that my pain was so ugly that they wouldn't be able to handle it. I couldn't bear to hurt them. My parents have risen to the occasion and fought through this war for healing right alongside me. I couldn't have asked for anyone more supportive or loving, and I'm so glad I let them in.
I think I would also long to tell her that she was never the dirt under the rug, that no one is ever perfect, that the real versions of ourselves, the honest ones, are far more valuable then the masks we wear. I would like to tell her that if she wanted to end this, she would have to stop running. That those premature graves she had dug would have to be revisited and she couldn't try to escape their memories, she would have to be willing to sit in the feeling and walk through it. …Healing comes after the wound has been treated…but you have to acknowledge that you have a wound, first. I am so grateful for my counselor, who has been that voice for me, who has sat there across from me on the couch and graciously reminded me of these things. She holds my hand while I turn and face the demons. …I think that is part of how you end it.
This is the beginning of one of my first journals. Sitting here reflecting on where I was then, and where I am now, I hardly recognize the girl that wrote these words…
Scratch and Dent Sale ('03) I handed you the key to let you in You never told me you wouldn't Leave anything standing (You left nothing standing) You trashed everything and Took all that I had The sad thing is I would have Given it to you if you asked (Why didn't you ask)? So now I sit here amidst the rubble And I think that I blend in My heart broken- in pieces Scattered meaninglessly across the floor A pathetic trail that leads only to you (And I won't follow) And I'm damaged goods Mark the price down Red line sale- fifty percent off (Cause no one buys) Who will want me now? But go ahead to your trophy room and add one more to your collection Another check on your pricy Shopping list- and now on to the next item… (Is that all I am?) …It's hard for me to recall where I was then, timelines, sequence of events, details…they all blur together for me. I do remember that I was used and abused, willingly and wrongfully, then tossed aside. If He, or She, wasn't hurting me, then I was. I had taken all of my insecurities and allowed everyone and anyone to reinforce the thoughts and names I had given myself. I longed for justice, for redemption, but it was such a foreign concept… I look at my life now, at the wounds that have healed, and the scars left behind, and I realize how far I have come in the past few years. Today I don't view myself as devalued, I am not "leftovers" for someone to pick through. I have fought to value myself, first and foremost, and in turn, have learned how to value others as well. For whatever reason, I have this odd analogy in my head, a picture of the girl that was, and the girl that is becoming. I recently moved into a new home, and I bought a white rug for the living room floor. Well, naturally, since I loved it so much, my dog decided it would be a good idea to poop on it. Not just once, but multiple times. The pure white was spotted in dark smelly brown… the girl I was before would have compared it to her. I didn't know how to clean it. The old me would have given up, throw the rug away, felt like a failure and hated the dog. I felt lost and overwhelmed. It felt so symbolic. Except, this time around, the old me didn't have a voice loud enough to make me sit there in defeat. I acknowledged that I needed help, and a few days later I got my rug back, spotless and beautiful as ever. As if nothing ever happened…redemption. I choose to believe that nothing is beyond redemption today. As stupid as a rug may sound, it signifies so much more for me. The wounds and stains that have found their way into my heart, are slowly being cleansed. My heart is being made new. I would have never imagined the opportunities that have presented themselves in the past few years, or the people who have loved me along the way. As scary as it is to put my journals out for the world to read, to let my heart be laid bare for all to see, it excites me to think that perhaps someone will journey through that process of healing with me in those pages, and maybe find a piece of themselves. A wound they identify with, a myth they believed about themselves, and hopefully, a tangible example that it is possible to come out on the other side. In my following blogs I will be pulling different pages from my book and giving some insight to where I was when I wrote them. I'm excited to share the insights I have gained and the wisdom that has been imparted to me, and the joy I have found in recovery. My journals have been described as " a slow drip", that hope we so fondly speak of, didn't just shine through all of my pain from day one, it gradually trickled through, it was a process. I can't say enough what a privilege it is to share what I have found with you.
come to Canada :(?
hmmmm i think that lil red line needs to stray and hit Cali.......in the corona area he he