Enter Label: snot like a spider's web

Dear Companions,

It was bound to happen, that I would appear here in a moment totally distraught with absolutely nothing positive to say at the start. A strand of snot hanging from my nose like a spider’s web. Self-pity, like a purple grape inside my throat.

The beast catches up after a series of back-to-back strikes, and it removes the foundational pieces. I’m Jenga on the floor. That’s what it feels like, and perhaps what it looks like. And the image of myself—a flamingo in a hurricane, strong, with a semblance of control over the operation, is fake news.

What do we do with these dark moments, these supremely dark moments. What are they for? What was their purpose back then, as a child? As an outcast at times. And what is their purpose now? The same cry accompanies these dark moments—a wince, a welch, a bellow alone. An ab workout called sadness squeezes the stomach.

No matter how much I may want a hug in this moment it’s not coming—it didn’t then, it won’t now either. The hugs never come in these moments. How is it you can live your whole life, and that equation still be true?

So, what is there to learn from this?

Hurt. Hurt in the face of that persistent questioning, does relent. In simply asking: what is this for? As if you’ve offered it a smoke, it removes its pinchers from your throat, just a touch. Look up to the ceiling, and find a crack in the window, and the idea comes to mind to go outside. Out onto the street. The walk does not have to be long. Sitting on a stoop, not even a block away, with wet eyes, as people pass by. Some people look down, sharing in the memory. Oh well, it’s quieter now.

I can write through this pain with the sole purpose of outrunning it, out gunning it, without a clear message or design, the sadness is no force against the number of words I have in my mind. A magician seems to be working on my eyes, to pry them open up a bit—wet still but taking on a rounder demeanor. Slowing down. Slowing down. Slowing down.

Until it goes away enough that I think—I should go make myself some dinner. At home, the image of me curled up on the floor is gone.

With much love from the Healingvrse,

Rebecca