People can grow strong enough to whisper at the iron bars that hold them and see them bend out of their way, like the most crazy magic. That's what love can do, fix souls, fix brains, cure us all. I wish I could have mastered that way, but it's hard when you've been starving for so long.
You can sit and call for help. You can act like there is no cage, wear a mask of coping and normality. You can rage against the bars. Yet what love makes simple, no other thing can solve. There is another escape route, yet it is one into another great pain. It is possible to be so emotionally starved that you slip through the bars, no longer bound but with your soul crumbling. That was my way out.
What followed was endless emotional marathons on bleeding knees. I learned how to hide the pain, how to look normal. I understand why some go cold inside to escape the pain of isolation, why they let their empathy wither and die: numbness over feeling, mental anesthesia. I refuse. The thing is, regardless of the pain, I believe that living with an incomplete soul is a form of death, and I'd rather be a humane human in pain than a zombie needing to bite others to feed.
Once again my emotions turn jagged and my insides tight. I cried out to those in reach, and I needed to talk to her, I needed to hear her voice again.
"I love you, please help me. Come sit with me, hold my hand. Eat chips with me. Call me friend. Look into my eyes, connect, because I'm falling."I wait, wide eyed, heart in my mouth, hoping for kindness. I need a hug, even if it is just words. I need soothing like a child. Instead they balk.
"This isn't a great time. So much on at work and am going away on a trip. Let's just say I'll call you when I have the time." she said.
"But I need help now, I'm lonely. I feel so abandoned. Just come, just help me. Won't you please, please help me? Say I can come see you; we'll just be together. I need you, need company. It would help so much." And then there are hot tears, ones they will never see, falling fast and thick onto my sweater. I feel the wetness of my skin and each drop as it emerges from open eyes.
"You know, I've always appreciated your spark and zest, you're a go getter, a survivor. I like that, you're gonna be just fine." she told me
That's when I knew. That's when the penny drops. Though I'm all grown up I'm a kid in time-out again. So I know what to do, this is familiar in a way that is traumatic. I swallow down the pain, eat it up into my belly and wear a passive face, a tentative smile and act meek. Maryam can't see it, but the acting out takes me to where I need to be.
"Yes. You're right. I'm so sorry, I'll be ok. I have some exciting new projects coming up. Give my love to Ethan." It works. She is satisfied, still thinking I'm errant, not quite right, but at least showing a will to fit the mould, and I might be a man but I cried out my eyes like a little child.
Emotional pain leaves invisible scars, yet they can be traced by the most gentle of touch. Sometimes, like a cyst, the "wound" must be opened to be healed; other times a well meaning
person may seek to heal what should be left alone. If it can be ignored and a normal happy life resumed, isn't it kinder to have faith in the natural healing process?
I've never been a person to hold a grudge, instead seeking to understand the motives of another. It doesn't mean there is no scar, only that I need have no forgiveness for the other. To forgive you must first resent, or at least that is my understanding. Perhaps that's why I heal so well, I'm not sure. But either way, my life is wonderful.
Nobody wants to hurt, yet if my pains can be used to help others, I am blessed. Anyhow, perhaps my scars are my road-map, maybe I'd be lost without them.
I knew when it started it would break me. I knew that there was too much below deck not to shatter my carefully laid floor when it came up. Breaking was hard, recovery almost impossible, but of my journey I am making the best map I possibly can. Drawing it out the way I do helps, painting it in fine oils daily. Emotional pain is hard, but using it in a way that helps others feels like stabbing the devil in the heart.
I feel more connected to her than any woman I ever met. I love the feel of her arms, her touch, her embrace, but it kills me. I get lost in her eyes, happy to drown, yet I must breathe. There comes a point in all natural romances where they must progress or implode, where the status quo becomes a torture, the medicine becomes a toxin. Nuella, we went past that point so long ago.
I know her reasons; I don't know I didn't want respect and understand them, but yet I supported her. I won't walk away because I promised I'd always stay, but my coping with this can't ever be guaranteed. I remember you said I was the only man who was any closer to your skin, I understand you, fulfil gaps in your life, that you need me in the long term, that you'd run away with me if you could.
"I love you," I said.
"I care." As you could say over the phone I guess he is there with you again.If my emotions are stronger than yours, why is it you that can't let go? I need your honesty.
I think I deserve the truth.