I think I remember how to do this...
Someone told me recently that I should write again. I think it's worth a try...I miss it. There is something cleansing about putting pen to paper...or fingers to keys in this case. I don't know if I can really promise this will be anything anyone would want to read, but hey. Maybe that someone was right. Maybe I can write something that will make a difference to someone. I don't know if I can pull that off, but I know this...I can write.
Maybe it's appropriate, then, that I start with a letter to you once more. I never could really pray out loud, not like I could on paper. I think that maybe, this is long overdue. I miss you.
Why is it I'm always saying that? I miss you. Like it was ever you that walked away.
A lot has happened since I last visited these pages, and I find that so very much has changed. So much so, that I don't even know where to start. And so my thoughts will wander...do try to keep up.
Music. It's like water to my soul, and fuel to the fire. It soothes, it screams, it reminds me that I'm still alive in here--that I'm not numb. Even when I can't breathe, when I can't feel--I feel the music. I can lose myself in the rawness of his voice, in the utter pain and victory in her violin, in the rage and heartache in the lyrics and the percussion beat. In the music, I am alive. I feel.
Wow--that was close. I almost said it. I almost put it in writing. Well now, wouldn't the world come to an end if that dirty little secret (that everyone knows now, anyway) was ever put to black and white? But no. We are sophisticated. We don't speak of those things. I think maybe we're learning to, though.
The monster under my bed has a name now. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder--PTSD. There was a time once when calling it by its name gave me comfort--it made me feel not quite so alone. Now, though, it just reminds me that I'm broken. That it's not a quirk or a little anxiety. Only I didn't save any soldiers or defend my country to get my badge of honor. I was just too weak and small to stop the Big Bad Thing from happening.
I bought them over a week ago. They are there, in a drawer, and calling my name. In the beginning, it was enough just to know they were there, because even giving in to the urge to go to the store and seek them out was a release. I put them in a drawer and now...I'm like a junkie. My thoughts return to that drawer in the most random moments. I don't forget they are there. But for now, they'll stay there. Maybe forever.
I've learned a lot about me--who I am, what my limits are, what I will fight for. I finally have reasons for why I am the way I am. These things, they have names--social anxiety, PTSD, PCOS, blah blah. I've identified the boiling lava pit inside me that was so hard to name, too. Its name is Rage. It is this that spins me out of control. It is Rage, more than anger, or sadness, or pain, that moves me to self-destruct. It is Rage that is the dangerous one. And now I know this, I can see what sets the Rage alight. It is born of helplessness, of being trapped, of being too small, too weak, to save the ones I love. It is this impotence that I cannot reconcile within myself. It is the weakness within me that I despise. And it is this which drives me to the brink--this is when I want to scream, to bleed, to crush mindlessly anything set before me. It is then that I want nothing more than to set the world on fire and watch it burn.
And all the while, I fight it back. I learn what I can and keep refusing to give in to it.
I've also found something I didn't know I had for so long. I used to think this was only my fight, that I had to face the monsters alone. That because I loved him, I needed to protect him. I was wrong. Somewhere in the past few years, I've begun to see him more clearly as he fights past the stubbornness and the secrets. My lighthouse, who shines a light so bright that the darkness cannot have me, no matter how hard it tries. My protector, who stands with me in a fight he didn't ask for and lends me his strength when I need it most. My husband. The love of my life, who gives me the strength to keep fighting without a thought. He looks at me, and he calls me beautiful. He tells me he loves me. He tells me I am worth everything. He picks up the pieces and calls me whole. And he makes me believe it.
So for that, I need to thank you. There are so few men in the world that could still love me after so much. But to go so far beyond, to have a love like this--I am in awe. I literally cannot put into words the ways that he saves me. Thank you.
And now, my request. Bring me closer to you. Show me how to get back. Protect those that I love. Keep me honest, and honorable. Make me a leader worth following, and guide my decisions. Guide me so that I may make a difference upon this world. Use me. I love you.
Maybe it's appropriate, then, that I start with a letter to you once more. I never could really pray out loud, not like I could on paper. I think that maybe, this is long overdue. I miss you.
Why is it I'm always saying that? I miss you. Like it was ever you that walked away.
A lot has happened since I last visited these pages, and I find that so very much has changed. So much so, that I don't even know where to start. And so my thoughts will wander...do try to keep up.
Music. It's like water to my soul, and fuel to the fire. It soothes, it screams, it reminds me that I'm still alive in here--that I'm not numb. Even when I can't breathe, when I can't feel--I feel the music. I can lose myself in the rawness of his voice, in the utter pain and victory in her violin, in the rage and heartache in the lyrics and the percussion beat. In the music, I am alive. I feel.
Wow--that was close. I almost said it. I almost put it in writing. Well now, wouldn't the world come to an end if that dirty little secret (that everyone knows now, anyway) was ever put to black and white? But no. We are sophisticated. We don't speak of those things. I think maybe we're learning to, though.
The monster under my bed has a name now. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder--PTSD. There was a time once when calling it by its name gave me comfort--it made me feel not quite so alone. Now, though, it just reminds me that I'm broken. That it's not a quirk or a little anxiety. Only I didn't save any soldiers or defend my country to get my badge of honor. I was just too weak and small to stop the Big Bad Thing from happening.
I bought them over a week ago. They are there, in a drawer, and calling my name. In the beginning, it was enough just to know they were there, because even giving in to the urge to go to the store and seek them out was a release. I put them in a drawer and now...I'm like a junkie. My thoughts return to that drawer in the most random moments. I don't forget they are there. But for now, they'll stay there. Maybe forever.
I've learned a lot about me--who I am, what my limits are, what I will fight for. I finally have reasons for why I am the way I am. These things, they have names--social anxiety, PTSD, PCOS, blah blah. I've identified the boiling lava pit inside me that was so hard to name, too. Its name is Rage. It is this that spins me out of control. It is Rage, more than anger, or sadness, or pain, that moves me to self-destruct. It is Rage that is the dangerous one. And now I know this, I can see what sets the Rage alight. It is born of helplessness, of being trapped, of being too small, too weak, to save the ones I love. It is this impotence that I cannot reconcile within myself. It is the weakness within me that I despise. And it is this which drives me to the brink--this is when I want to scream, to bleed, to crush mindlessly anything set before me. It is then that I want nothing more than to set the world on fire and watch it burn.
And all the while, I fight it back. I learn what I can and keep refusing to give in to it.
I've also found something I didn't know I had for so long. I used to think this was only my fight, that I had to face the monsters alone. That because I loved him, I needed to protect him. I was wrong. Somewhere in the past few years, I've begun to see him more clearly as he fights past the stubbornness and the secrets. My lighthouse, who shines a light so bright that the darkness cannot have me, no matter how hard it tries. My protector, who stands with me in a fight he didn't ask for and lends me his strength when I need it most. My husband. The love of my life, who gives me the strength to keep fighting without a thought. He looks at me, and he calls me beautiful. He tells me he loves me. He tells me I am worth everything. He picks up the pieces and calls me whole. And he makes me believe it.
So for that, I need to thank you. There are so few men in the world that could still love me after so much. But to go so far beyond, to have a love like this--I am in awe. I literally cannot put into words the ways that he saves me. Thank you.
And now, my request. Bring me closer to you. Show me how to get back. Protect those that I love. Keep me honest, and honorable. Make me a leader worth following, and guide my decisions. Guide me so that I may make a difference upon this world. Use me. I love you.
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