I pulled myself out of bed at 5:30 this morning after staring at the ceiling all night.  Well, honestly, that’s not really true.  I spent the night flipping around in the sheets like a fish out of water, or a worm writhing in pain after having been sprinkled with salt.  Or a girl with a mountain of pain falling down around her ears like an extra large top hat.  I’m the fish, the worm, the girl.  Out of my element and in pain.  I’ve spent some time in therapy and with friends talking about all those things you don’t want to talk about in the past few weeks.  About betrayal and loss, grief and guilt.  We’ve talked about holding someone you love in your arms while they sob and wish to be dead, so only many years later we wish we could die and put that unimaginable pain into their heart.  We talked about our brother coming to the door with a sharpened railroad spike, telling us that he only wants to kill mom, not us because he’d never hurt us.  We talked about abuse, of each other and of drugs.  The drugs we used to take like it was a religion, religious numbing of the mind, body, and spirit.  The abuse we handed out to people who only loved us and wanted nothing else.  The abuse we took from others well-loved and nothing else wanted from.  I’ve sought relief in many ways in the past few weeks.  I’ve tried talking more.  I’ve tried talking honestly more.  I’ve tried medication.  I’ve tried self-medication.  Sometimes, I have come to accept over the years, pain is unavoidable.  You run and duck and cover and all of that and there’s no getting away from the steamroller that’s, well, steamrolling towards you at a rate fast enough to overtake you eventually.  So to let go of some of the pain I was feeling, I decided to write.  But when I sat down at my computer, as I am sitting right now, I found I had so little left to say of meaning.  When I write posts on this blog, I am usually doing so for both my benefit and yours.  Sometimes, you do more for me.  530 views thus far.


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