Girl running through field of flowers
When will the halcyon days come? When will I have suffered enough? It doesn’t have to be running through a field of flowers (though it could be), but when will the pain be over? When will I be happy again?
Dr. V says I must grieve. Just like that: “Grieve, boy!” I’m not a dog. I can’t cry on demand. Tears escape but that’s not crying. And I don’t control them. They come when they please. I don’t even know where they come from; the well is capped and I can’t open it.
I just want the halcyon days. That’s all. It’s not such a lot. I’ve already hurt so much. Why must I hurt more? It’s too much. Much too much. Can’t You just make it stop?
You always do this to me. I follow You thinking You’re healing me, that I’ll finally be happy — like You promised — but there’s always more work and I’m just so tired. Why is it so hard? When will it be enough?
I need a shower. And some dinner.
I’m just being silly aren’t I? Just pouting. Hunger makes me so cranky.
So what do You want me to do? Be honest, right? That’s what I promised to do when I went back into therapy.
Okay. I don’t know how to grieve. I don’t even want to grieve. D’Abby, I’m not even sure I know what grieve means. So if that’s what You want, You’ll have to make it happen. You’ve got carte blanche to take me through the fire and I’ll try not to complain too much. Actually, I’ll probably complain a lot so just ignore the noise.
(I’ll regret this.)
One foot clad in black, Mary-Jane pumps banged against the chair rail with a dull thud. I had switched the lamp on the table to its dimmest setting, ready for our return. They will be down soon, I silently told one slim leg clad in off-white tights. I perused my dark blue, silk velvet dress for any specs of missed lint and, finding none, took in a deep satisfied breath: Finally, I’m where I belong.
“No!” I told myself. “I’m too tall now to swing my feet while sitting on a chair. It won’t be that way.”
The scene in my mind changed. This time I stood looking in the mirror. My short hair had been expertly slicked back, my eyes perfectly made up. This is where I belong, I firmly told myself.
“Something is off,” I told my Friend. Tears filled the corners of my eyes. “I imagine and plan and try to see myself as I will be when I’m finally with my parents and I just can’t get it right. How will I ever be ready to go home if I can’t even see it as possible? How can I plan if I don’t believe it will happen?”
I hid my head in my arms, my heart in the warmth of His embrace. He remained silent.
Every Friday,100s of bloggers set a timer, write for 5 minutes, and then publish the results. We don’t edit or engulf ourselves in concerns about whether our writing is worthy to be seen. We expose our incomplete, unpolished thoughts and words to each other and our readers. Kate Motaung’s, at Heading Home, provides the prompt on Thursday evening. We all link our posts there and tweet them with the hashtag #FMFParty. Join us.