I dreamt tomorrow will have a prettier face. I dreamt tomorrow would have better things to say. . . ‘Cos that day, never should have taken place. . .
Poe, “That Day”
Y’all. My chest feels split open wide. Exposed. Vulnerable. And I cried so hard last night that I nearly vomited. The grief, the injustice, the unadulterated pain, the earth shattering agony: it broke me.
My glass tower broke. And here I am, unsure of how I will face tomorrow. I don’t know how I can or will. I’m broken and it feels like I’m sitting in the middle of it all, picking up the pieces knowing I can’t put it back together.
I’m broken yet not missing any pieces. Broken and whole, simultaneously.
And I’m scared. Scared of being poked or prodded. Scared I will be further broken. Scared that someone will take a piece of me and not give it back.
I want to hide.
Instead I stand, exposed, vulnerable. Instead I stubbornly live with what feels like gaping wounds. I cry and I no longer hide the tears.
Oh, God. Are people going to know me, see inside me now?
My prayer used to be for God to hide me. That no longer fits me, who I am becoming. Hiding is not me living authentically as me.
I want to hide. But I need to run, free. Not underground, not running for cover, but running to live.
I’m finding my voice.
And my memories are reappearing. Things I had forgotten so long ago I am now remembering more clearly. Things my mother told me didn’t happen that way… they did happen that way.
Light will still shine in forgotten places.
And I meekly tell my husband what I theorize to be the reasons I stopped speaking, stopped remembering, feebly giving voice to my emotions and experiences. He patiently listens.
Still everything in me screams to run for cover. To go lay in bed. To give up. To crumple and die (figuratively).
Instead I stay. I get out of bed. I give more than what I think I have to give. I stand up and live.
Through the gaping hole, not inside it, is where I belong.
Turn you to the strong hold, ye prisoners of hope. . .
Zechariah 9:12 KJV
In the midst of the pain and torment: God is good. In the midst of my questions, my angry interrogations of Him, He is good. He was good then, He is good now.
My strong hold, my safe place: it’s not in hiding any longer. It is living unashamed in the great wide open.
And I cling to that. Somehow, someway, in this broken world filled with broken people, God is good. I’m allowed to be me. And that gives me hope.
And I am alive. Alive to go through the motions if that’s all I’ve got right now. And this is better than not living, not feeling, and not experiencing.
Living is not easy. I wish it were. But it is worth the work, worth the effort, worth the pain and tears.
It’s worth it for the days with prettier faces.
And if you are still hiding: it’s okay. Keep hiding until you are safe to come out. You are brave to still be living and I am so proud of you. You are so strong and I so admire you.
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