not a cry for help... just a cry

photo by anna groth-shive

if you must know, it feels sort of like I'm dying. of course, how am I to know what dying feels like? I am still alive. and quite frankly, I have a lot of nerve even speaking of such things when my heart is still beating, and my lungs are still supplying the oxygen it needs to do so.

I am not writing this for sympathy. I am writing this for sanity. I am full of question marks that poke at my ribs and tickle my toes. the writer in me thinks that perhaps, perhaps, writing about it will ease my tired mind. my weary body. my body wants a vacation from working. a bruise on my shin refuses to heal, a week later it is tender like the first blow. I ran into a coffee table made by a father and his sons. a giant tree flattened for magazines and beer bottles. rough edges left for smooth shins. my shin. still bruised.

I am trying to heal.

what I am asking of myself is courage, and I am finding stock piles of it under stacks of old books I am going through to divide between me and the love that once was. I am finding hope in between summer dresses I am pulling off hangers and putting into bags. I am finding patience in cluttered drawers full of too many little things to do anything with but throw away. I am finding love in the mirror when I finally give into brushing my dirty mouth and washing my long face. I want help. I want a 24 hour hot line. but I will not dial the phone.

I am doing this alone. not because I have to, but because it is the only honest thing.

that is not to say there are not countless blessings being bestowed upon my head. people making phone calls and leaving messages. feeding me when I have forgotten to do so myself. offering up a comfy couch. listening. making me laugh. sending me emails about people worshiping images of christ found in cheetos. cheesus.

I am ok, even though I am not. I am ok. I am looking forward to being better...

I am tired. I am worn out. I am reminded every 3.278 seconds why some people avoid love all together. it is painful, not always, but often. it ends. one way or another. but I am not going to avoid it. ever. I embrace this part of the exchange. the dividing of lives shared. I do not feel sorry for myself. it was all worth it. it is always worth it. always.