Truth be told, I have avoided the silent places. The places in life where, if left too long, alone, with silence – the thoughts start to creep in. The places where you can hear yourself think, and when you can finally hear yourself think, you start to entertain thoughts that you know you shouldn’t be. The places where even your loudest thoughts cannot drown out the screams of the masses (or minorities, depending on how you look at it). The places that take me down deep, and far back and threaten to never release its hold. The places I do not want to be. Yes. Truth be told, I have been avoiding those places.
Somehow over the past few years, this too has turned into such a place. A place that once brought me comfort and relief from the world spinning so out of my control. A place where I could write down my thoughts and not have to worry about being picked apart. A place where my thoughts could be removed, looked at, sorted out, and reassembled. A place. That I enjoyed coming to. And somehow over the years, I have slowly started to scale back.
I have scaled back what I share, I have been scaled back on what I can share. I look over my words, and feel the immense pain and sadness and the deep urge to just RUN. I feel, for myself. The thing is, the me of here, and the me now – are two different people. Life isn’t completely grand, no. It never will be for anyone. But trying to write something now would have a much different tune than it did even a year ago. It seems disrespectful, in a sense. To write the words I have today, in the same place the words of me a year ago lay.
But I cant bring myself to completely do away with writing, because as much as air is to many, or all, so is writing to me. I need the outlet, the release, the putting of words into sentences that don’t make any sense. I need this. For me. For both the me of then, and the me of now.
We are a week away from what would have been my daughters 12th birthday. And while that day will never go down as one of the best in history, it will never go down much like it did that first year. Or even the second or third. Where it was all I could do to not be completely engulfed by the horror that yet another had passed – without her. There are still days when I am caught off guard by a song, or a memory. A small face, or tiny hands. There are moments where my heart skips a beat, and my breath gets logged somewhere in my throat and I wonder “What IF!”
But nothing can ever compare to those first years. Nothing can compare to these past few years. Nothing. No one could have ever told me how completely ripped apart, scalded, burned, and beaten I would feel. No one would ever have prepared me to love so deeply, that grief would literally try to tear my own life away from me – yet refused, because that would be too kind. I could never have been prepared for the gut ripping, mind blowing experience of LIVING without life itself. No one. And yet here we are, so many, many years later…
And I am supposed to somehow, rearrange my thoughts and prepare articles, make dinner, wipe noses, raise kids, and feed the dog. Somehow. I am supposed to fold my thoughts out, write my heart down, and say what is on my mind. But its hard. Because life isn’t easy. It never is. Yet it seems almost trivial to complain, or whine about the things in life now. Because compared to just last year – life is a cake walk.
My hope is to return. With words. And sentences. And thoughts. My hope is to once again be drawn to this place, and not to see it as only the words of a terribly sad life – but also of life today. Because just as a scab eventually disappears, and an ugly scar is left in its place – so am I. Still here. Still breathing. Still hoping. Still waiting. Yet much like a scar no longer resembles the skin that was BEFORE the wound, so my life will look nothing like before.