It’s possible I’m unwilling to give up my pain, just so you know.
It’s entirely possible I really dig my pain and the showing of it. I’m not a screamer, with my pain. I’m a brooder, a pseudo-martyr.
I’m not proud of this, I promise you. I don’t like it and I confess it’s possible I’m unwilling to give it up.
And yet, this is what dangles before me. Like the kid being asked to give up her blankie…that smelly, stinky, ripped and worn blankie…it may be time. I am still, unwilling.
I have no idea what I’ll hold at night if I give up this pain, this fear, this doubt. What will be there in it’s place? anything? emptiness?
I fill that silence. As much as I purport to seek after it, to want it, to breathe it, to let it fill me I am at once, unconvinced. I know this about me.
How can silence be so heavy and solid, this absence of words, this listening in to the sighing of everything outside, inside, underneath and overhead? God, I hate to wait on the silence. It’s voice is sweet, I know this, I remember it, we have had this conversation before you know.
Why don’t I remember the sweetness first? Why is it that I am so ready to throw it under the bus when the ice cream truck comes down the street? Why not wait and taste the silence on my tongue instead, know the coolness it brings to a fevered thought life, let it stick to my hands and my mouth as it delivers some relief to my poor, starved stomach…
It may be….that I am still, yet, unwilling to give up my pain…even as it hurts me, it’s barbs digging into my thigh. It’s not that the relief is not attractive enough, the ice cream isn’t sweet enough…it’s that I am just most simply, afraid.