life

CounterbalancedĀ 

They say that everything takes time. Trauma takes time. You just need time. It wasn’t something that I could’ve believed then, though. Hell, I still don’t. Some things there just isn’t enough time for. 

In the Aftermath, friends who’d suffered trauma said I just needed time and I didn’t believe them. And I want to ask them, when is enough time enough? How does the soul repair itself when it’s been through hell? And not just a one off moment of trauma but a lifetime of heavy, soul weary, trauma? When does the breath of ones being finally free itself from the binds of hell?

No one has an answer. Those well meaning friends don’t have an answer. The psychiatrist I was sent to could only tell me to read books but the answer I wanted, the answer I still seek, cannot be found any text – it never heals. 

We enter into this world with a soul, one we believe is all shiny and new, freshly polished. Depending on what religion you follow, however, that soul is as old as time or new as the days sunrise. 
What baggage has each soul carried with it from previous lives? What do we do to ourselves? What do we continue to put ourselves through? No soul is untarnished and with each passing day, with every little bruise, our souls become stained. With love? Trauma? Pain? Is it weary? Is it hopeful for a new life? A new day? 

I have been thinking of you a lot lately. I don’t know if it’s because this is 5 years, if this is date and day, or if I just feel your strong presence because our world is in turmoil and I seek something comfortable that I know. But I feel you and think of you daily. Repeatedly. And then, when I’m alone in a room and doing something, I see something moving out of the corner of my eye and I look and there’s nothing there. Is it you? Someone else I’ve picked up? I spent a childhood with dead people. I had dreams of people before they died. Am I a conduit? If only that were the case. I’d speak with my grandparents again. 

I don’t understand your pain but I understand my own. The anger. The absolute rage that I have because I was molested and people would deny that truth. For their own protection? Self preservation? I don’t know. I only know that I see you, your face. I see your pain, your death. I see your rage turned inward and onto yourself. 

You beautiful girl. How I wish I could ease your pain. 

You are with me every day. We are bound together. The girl who lived and the girl who died. 

I sometimes wonder if I don’t purposely hold on to you, your death, the gore. Like a security blanket, it’s something I can cling to for safety. A bit of an oxy moron to those who’ve never suffered but it’s a safe pain. Something you know and understand. 

I worry that I’m keeping you with me on purpose. And then for five minutes I’ll forget about you. And for five minutes I’m free. I can breathe. I don’t feel a weight tugging at me, a niggling reminder of my own impending death, my own expiry date. I am a helium balloon and you are a weight. We are counterbalanced. 

I used to worry that talking about you and what happened, that people would see it as attention seeking. I would go out of my way to not talk about what happened, to not even mention it. Again, how terrible that I worried more about the comfort and opinions of others instead of myself.  

First Nations believe that as long as someone tells the story, nothing is ever dead. And so I will tell my story. Maybe I won’t shout it from the rooftops (an unlikely pun) but a quiet whisper from my heart instead. 

Book quote – Help!

Quite frequently, when I’m reading or listening to music and I stumble onto something I like, I write the quotes into the notes on my cell phone but I never manage to write down the source. I know, I know, always cite your sources. I’d get a failing grade, for sure.

What also sucks is that I quite frequently write down, also in the notes of my phone, my own writing. I don’t have to cite my source as I am source enough. It’s my phone and I am the writer. What more could I need??

The only time it becomes a problem, however, is when I’m unsure if I’m reading something I’ve written or something from a book/movie/song. I then have to google the quote and hope to god I can find it somewhere online. When I can’t, though…

Case in point. I’m PRETTY sure this is from a book. SO sure, in fact, that I think it was at the top of the left hand page. Possibly it could’ve started on the previous page but the quote ended on the left page, at the top. Think you can help me? I know I didn’t write this (though I wish I did) and hopefully you can tell me what book it’s from. It’s driving me buggy!!

“Heaven isn’t about choices but everlasting love. Life, this is about choices. Choose happiness. Or misery. Or both. Choose whatever you want so long as you choose.”

Alright, kids. There’s your quote. Feel free to comment when you’ve got the answer, at which point you will be my hero. I will reward you with … public gratitude and … many thanks, made publicly … and oodles of gratefulness… ?

Also, happy new month! (or white rabbit, if you’d prefer, though I fear we’d lose the darn thing in the snowbanks)