001 UNSENT


Letters to Me, The Before, Now and To Come

 

 

Letter I. 

The Quiet Noise

 

I thought the silence would finally give me room to breathe, a sanctuary where I could draw the air deep into my lungs and find a piece of heart to focus. 

But the stillness doesn't help as it should because it only makes my grief easier to hear. 

This quiet noise rings through my mind and leaves me stranded with a version of myself I no longer recognize.

It makes the stillness feel like a heavy weight pressing against my chest rather than the gift I went looking for.

I am sitting in the wreckage of a silence that was supposed to be a cure but turned out to be a cruel irony.

So I am learning to stop waiting for the stillness to fix the fractures in my soul. I am  deciding instead to inhabit the noise until it no longer scares me, until the silence is no longer a burden, but a space where I am allowed to exist without the pressure of being whole.


Popular posts from this blog

002 UNSENT

Letters To Me, The Before, Now and To Come   Letter II. Everything and Nothing, To my Suspended Self I lost a version of myself so completely that I cannot even remember her face, Yet, I spend every waking moment putting a crushing pressure on my soul to be a better replacement for that ghost, birthing a deep sense of inadequacy as I try to make up for a person who no longer exists. I am suspended in a void where I feel everything and nothing at all. I am simultaneously drowning in the sharp edges of my grief and swimming through the thick, suffocating waters of an anxiety that never lets me rest or find my footing.  Even the simple task of getting out of bed, becomes an impossible mountain, one that requires more courage than I have. It leaves me to drag my body through a life that feels like a weight I was never meant to carry.  I am NUMB and SCARED but still moving. I am hanging in there to find out who   is left when the suspension finally breaks... and if,...
Read more

008 SHACKLES

The External Pressure Grief in a communal setting operates as a competitive audit of time, a period where my healing is measured against in invisible social calendar that I never agreed to sign, yet one I am forced to inhabit. There is a biting irony in a mutual loss.  The very people who stood in the wreckage with me have now decided that time has served as a cure for my despair. They shift their gaze from empathy to quiet, judgmental impatience , simply because my continued pain has become a mirror to their own discomfort.  They treat my lost light as a biological necessity but as a FAILURE OF CHARACTER. They use their own speed of recovery as the standard by which my insolvency is judged, entirely unaware that their moving on is often just a shallow tolerance for the silence.  I am bound to an emotional pace that is not my own , shackled to a timeline where my refusal to perform a return to normal is viewed as a choice rather then  systematic failure of the mind...
Read more