I'm so tired of hurting. And I want to tell you but my pleas are usually shut down with "You could have it worse" or "Just be happy".
What an idea! Just be happy! I haven't thought of that one before.
I have no earthly idea why they say this is not a physical disease. The natural chemicals in my brain are lacking. Instead of sending the signals to keep your heart beating, it sends the signals to take the aspirin bottle and swallow each pill in threes.
And only then was it considered physical. When the heart is fluttering like a butterfly, and instead of the slow beat...beat...beat...beat it becomes
as she prepares to go into cardiac arrest.
It was only considered physical when the blood ran so thin that even the smallest prick doused my hospital gown in a fist-sized blood stain. I saw it. My life source; a little from mom and a little from dad. They worked so hard to give it to me. Why did I poison it so?
And as I lay in the hospital bed, crying feeble tears of confusion, I can sense the nurses whispering about me, as they stare in my room, I'm stripped of privacy. Of dignity. I cannot be treated like a normal sick person.
It's been a while.
I did not think I would carry this with me into my adulthood. Do you know how hard it is to hurt and not be able to tell anyone?
Like I said, it is not considered physical. And they will only believe it if they see it.
Now I know how God felt when I denied Him all those years. To be told such a big part of you does not really exist... I only wear my scar tissue on the inside. It's there. I can feel it, like a mother can feel her baby kick in the womb months before she makes her existence known in the world.
I feel it everyday. Even on a good day, it remains behind me as a shadow threatening me. It will always be unpredictable. Just when I think I have my head above water another tidal wave takes me under.
I feel like no one understands...this is exactly how I felt before it happened. Before it happened the first time, the second time, the third time; and I promised I would never do it again.
How do I expect others to keep their promises when I can't keep my own?
To feel this way is common. But it is certainly not normal-not to be this often, this constant.
I can be high and mighty, like tequila sunrise. I know it.
And it will be followed by an awful hangover.
Just look at the words I'm writing, my style of late. I can do better than this. I have. The muses are musing but they hold back.
I hold back.
This is my SOS.