She really hates this rule, but is now forced to adhere to it as the not abiding keeps her coming back for punishments.
When it becomes evident that there exists no reciprocation, it is imperative that you decide to put yourself first. Giving unashamedly is admirable, but the heartache that ensues once it is never returned, is not worth the exhaustion of the soul. It then becomes necessary to move on and grow, knowing you gave your all.
A woman must always know when enough is enough.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Sensation #3 - terrifying fear and anguish
There exist few emotions she knows that terrify her, make her question her ability to control what is under the surface.
Late at night, she drops the phone, hears the delicate thud as it impacts the fuzz of the floor. It sounds loud even though most of the tones muffle and are absorbed. In front of the TV, the one she just purchased, just became used to with its sharper image and better technology, she drops to her knees. She too, feels muffled, absorbed into the floor.
Her fingers grasp the flimsy carpet, claw at it as she tries to stall the spinning sensation, the weight of a feeling she's not known before. She feels like she's moving and yet she is there, anchored to the carpet by her fingertips, her nails.
Nausea bubbles in her stomach and then wrenches, opening up the heaving sobs she'd been holding in for over an hour. She falls forward, off her knees, buries her head in the dismal fabric and howls in animalistic pain. She is spinning, wailing, grasping out to each side as if continuing to fall through some imaginary hell.
Hot tears flow uncontrollably from her eyes and they burn with the knowledge that they will continue to cry for days from here on out. She is exhausted from the pain, from the horrible knowledge, from the thought of losing it, and ultimately, from knowing there is nothing, nothing in the world, she can do.
Helplessness paralyzes her and makes her scream for God. Help me, she cries internally. God, help this terrible thing.
Her hair mats to her wet face and she heaves, gasping for oxygen as she's drowning in tears and choking sobs. The sounds she emits, she has never heard before. No one will ever hear them.
She feels wounded, incapable of rising, and so she falls asleep in the floor buried under the weight of duress, under the call she knows is beckoning her to action, and yet she is flat forward. God, does she dare blow the lid off this thing?
All the hurt, all the pain...all the unfathomable torment she knew deep down was there before, but she denied hoping it was never true.
Somewhere, someone is dying and all she wants to do is save a life.
And she cries in heartbreak, not knowing how.
Late at night, she drops the phone, hears the delicate thud as it impacts the fuzz of the floor. It sounds loud even though most of the tones muffle and are absorbed. In front of the TV, the one she just purchased, just became used to with its sharper image and better technology, she drops to her knees. She too, feels muffled, absorbed into the floor.
Her fingers grasp the flimsy carpet, claw at it as she tries to stall the spinning sensation, the weight of a feeling she's not known before. She feels like she's moving and yet she is there, anchored to the carpet by her fingertips, her nails.
Nausea bubbles in her stomach and then wrenches, opening up the heaving sobs she'd been holding in for over an hour. She falls forward, off her knees, buries her head in the dismal fabric and howls in animalistic pain. She is spinning, wailing, grasping out to each side as if continuing to fall through some imaginary hell.
Hot tears flow uncontrollably from her eyes and they burn with the knowledge that they will continue to cry for days from here on out. She is exhausted from the pain, from the horrible knowledge, from the thought of losing it, and ultimately, from knowing there is nothing, nothing in the world, she can do.
Helplessness paralyzes her and makes her scream for God. Help me, she cries internally. God, help this terrible thing.
Her hair mats to her wet face and she heaves, gasping for oxygen as she's drowning in tears and choking sobs. The sounds she emits, she has never heard before. No one will ever hear them.
She feels wounded, incapable of rising, and so she falls asleep in the floor buried under the weight of duress, under the call she knows is beckoning her to action, and yet she is flat forward. God, does she dare blow the lid off this thing?
All the hurt, all the pain...all the unfathomable torment she knew deep down was there before, but she denied hoping it was never true.
Somewhere, someone is dying and all she wants to do is save a life.
And she cries in heartbreak, not knowing how.
Rule #5
Her code of ethics and propensity for genuine kindness always trump any hatred or anger she feels. And it is in this vein that she adheres relentlessly to her fifth rule.
Always forgive. This does not mean you must forget the heartaches, the pain, or even the injustices that continue to plague and haunt you. But you must forgive. Love, true friendship, and kindness are unconditional. You never know when what you do may save someone, help someone, may have an impact that brings additional good to the universe.
And even if it smarts and even if it risks your pride, your honor, and your sense of control over your emotions, do what you must when someone you care about loses touch with their world. It matters not what has happened in the past, for genuine love never judges, never operates on condition, and ultimately, never fails.
Always forgive. This does not mean you must forget the heartaches, the pain, or even the injustices that continue to plague and haunt you. But you must forgive. Love, true friendship, and kindness are unconditional. You never know when what you do may save someone, help someone, may have an impact that brings additional good to the universe.
And even if it smarts and even if it risks your pride, your honor, and your sense of control over your emotions, do what you must when someone you care about loses touch with their world. It matters not what has happened in the past, for genuine love never judges, never operates on condition, and ultimately, never fails.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Cold Memory #3
It always happened on a night when it would have meant the most. It was always when she was desperate for a reassuring embrace or a handful of comforting words.
But what really made the hell worth it were those nights when they could fall asleep together - the nights when he'd roll over and curl around her like a bookend. His head would rest between her neck and shoulder and his arm would wind deeply around her as if pulling her in as far as she could go. This, most of the time, was all she needed.
And it was the nights he refused - the nights he insisted he couldn't sleep that way - that she hurt the most. Rejection made manifest in lingerie. It seemed she always felt the coldest, the most exposed when he openly refused her. And it was on these nights, the ones that felt the bitterest and most painfully human, that she was incapable of slumber.
She lay awake most of the night, her eyes burning against the glimmer of the outdoor light slipping through the broken blinds. She'd listen to the melodic bangs of the furnace and the soft, rustling movements of the cat at the end of the bed. And she'd watch him. Watch him breathe easily, watch his body rise and fall rhythmically as if she never should have been in her own room.
And it was then she felt like an accessory - a stranger in her own home - and someone she then realized he never needed for this purpose, but for something else entirely.
But what really made the hell worth it were those nights when they could fall asleep together - the nights when he'd roll over and curl around her like a bookend. His head would rest between her neck and shoulder and his arm would wind deeply around her as if pulling her in as far as she could go. This, most of the time, was all she needed.
And it was the nights he refused - the nights he insisted he couldn't sleep that way - that she hurt the most. Rejection made manifest in lingerie. It seemed she always felt the coldest, the most exposed when he openly refused her. And it was on these nights, the ones that felt the bitterest and most painfully human, that she was incapable of slumber.
She lay awake most of the night, her eyes burning against the glimmer of the outdoor light slipping through the broken blinds. She'd listen to the melodic bangs of the furnace and the soft, rustling movements of the cat at the end of the bed. And she'd watch him. Watch him breathe easily, watch his body rise and fall rhythmically as if she never should have been in her own room.
And it was then she felt like an accessory - a stranger in her own home - and someone she then realized he never needed for this purpose, but for something else entirely.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Mrs. Weedgrass gets the package, reads the letter
When the postal service brought the crisp brown box to her door, Mrs. Weedgrass was pleased to have finally gotten some mail. No one ever sent her packages or real letters the old fashioned way. It seemed everything that came via the postal service was official, devoid of kindness in some way.
The house was quiet - no one is ever home anymore - and so she took the box to her kitchen, the walls echoing with the tiny clinks of nicknacks shaking against old paint.
When she opened it, saw the contents, read the letter with its urgent warning...her heart skipped and she clutched the edge of the countertop. A bead of perspiration formed and dripped from her white hairline. (She did not like to sweat.)
And quickly aging Mrs. Weedgrass breathed in sharply, the oxygen catching coldly against her ribs as she did. She felt her organs liquify and her teeth then come down firmly together in a way they hadn't in years. Her red-brown eyes narrowed to slits then opened in a wild, hysterical way, rolling from side to side as she steadied herself.
This was the beginning of the punishments she always knew God would bring.
The young woman knew.
"God help me," Mrs. Weedgrass muttered hotly.
She knew.
"I knew it would be her," she added softly. "It had to be her."
And she placed the box back in its rightful room and went to the den to organize her thoughts. When she sat down, she peered down into the basket where she saw her last weaving project slowly unraveling...
The house was quiet - no one is ever home anymore - and so she took the box to her kitchen, the walls echoing with the tiny clinks of nicknacks shaking against old paint.
When she opened it, saw the contents, read the letter with its urgent warning...her heart skipped and she clutched the edge of the countertop. A bead of perspiration formed and dripped from her white hairline. (She did not like to sweat.)
And quickly aging Mrs. Weedgrass breathed in sharply, the oxygen catching coldly against her ribs as she did. She felt her organs liquify and her teeth then come down firmly together in a way they hadn't in years. Her red-brown eyes narrowed to slits then opened in a wild, hysterical way, rolling from side to side as she steadied herself.
This was the beginning of the punishments she always knew God would bring.
The young woman knew.
"God help me," Mrs. Weedgrass muttered hotly.
She knew.
"I knew it would be her," she added softly. "It had to be her."
And she placed the box back in its rightful room and went to the den to organize her thoughts. When she sat down, she peered down into the basket where she saw her last weaving project slowly unraveling...
Warm Memory #5 - from way back...
Back in those days, she was always testing the limits of her youth. No one particularly knew or cared at the time and it was the indulgences she escaped with that made her life worth living, not those limiting and ordinary things she was best known for in town.
And it was before her days became gradually more complicated that she was able to experience singing along to a scratched up CD, the giggles of an awkward friend, and the vein-clearing effects of "cooking vodka" from a coffee mug.
This always brought on the sensation of novacaine and the ridiculous, private jokes that would endure a lifetime.
And it was before her days became gradually more complicated that she was able to experience singing along to a scratched up CD, the giggles of an awkward friend, and the vein-clearing effects of "cooking vodka" from a coffee mug.
This always brought on the sensation of novacaine and the ridiculous, private jokes that would endure a lifetime.
Postcard from an Old Friend
Sometimes, her more articulate friends will send postcards reminding her of the genuine hilarity of youth and the mark of seasons gone by.
In the mail was a card from Swabby, an old friend from college. He'd just begun his writing career and was sending his vibes out into the universe. The card read,
"Even though the mood was bitter, the weather rainy and strangely transcendental, moving me forward, but moving me backward quite rapidly too,...to a time when we were all younger, happier, ran around with our feet in the air...thinking next of only whose bed we'd sleep in tomorrow and laughing at the bed we woke up in that day."
And she smiled reading the passage, it's sincerity and honesty resonating like the heat of her very first and only tan line.
In the mail was a card from Swabby, an old friend from college. He'd just begun his writing career and was sending his vibes out into the universe. The card read,
"Even though the mood was bitter, the weather rainy and strangely transcendental, moving me forward, but moving me backward quite rapidly too,...to a time when we were all younger, happier, ran around with our feet in the air...thinking next of only whose bed we'd sleep in tomorrow and laughing at the bed we woke up in that day."
And she smiled reading the passage, it's sincerity and honesty resonating like the heat of her very first and only tan line.
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