By Margo Lawson
Some hurt is shown through apparent signs. It is demonstrated through crying or yelling. Or even through physical wounds and bruises. Other pain is shown through small motions or slip-ups. Her hurt gets displayed in small ways. It is apparent in shaking fingers and red-rimmed eyes. It’s demonstrated through talking too little or too much for normalcy. It is shown only to the people who know her, who understand her. To them, they see the pain; the wounds under her skin, and the bones that continue to fracture over and over. She continues to spin, hoping that she might be pulled out of her spiral someday.
Lying down slowly, the world tilts. She feels the ghost of a sheet on her face, the smooth texture suffocating against the stifling heat in her lungs. She is warm here; she feels safe. Here there are no people, no questions, and no longing ache for normalcy deep in the chest. She tries to do what is expected of her, but there is a weight on her head. It bogs her down and makes her knees crumble beneath her. So instead, she lies, floats, and hopes to no avail for the helplessness to digress.
In a room full of chattering people, she feels alone. When surrounded by smiling faces, all of them blur into one. She talks and laughs and tries to suck up the joy from those around her. But as she sits on the couch, laughing faces near hers, she is utterly empty. Her mouth moves and talks while her head feels hazy. There are too many people for comfort, and yet she cannot bear the thought of being alone at that moment. Her heart aches with the desperation for human connection, for someone she can talk to and feel joy with. Never has she felt so alone yet so suffocated.
Her hands shake in minuscule movements, and her breath feels caught in her throat. Everything is too much; the world existing around her is too much. There are bright, shining orbs from every direction, and her heart thrums in her ears, drowning out all other sounds. She is so sure that everyone within the mile would be able to hear her beating heart, yet no one seems to pay her any mind. People bustle past, focusing on their tasks and days, not noticing how she can’t breathe. How do they not see how suddenly loud the passing trucks are? Or how the air has thinned as if it was a mountain top? How is she standing here, and no one is noticing her pain?
Healing is not linear. It comes in waves, and it ebbs and flows. Yesterday she felt pain and sadness heavy in her heart, yet today the sun shines, and today she feels alive. Being around friends makes her feel light instead of heavy, and breathing air is refreshing instead of a struggle to force her lungs to inhale. Today she can remember and remind herself that getting through hardships means strength and perseverance and that there is more happiness in the future. It means that if you can find your way through the fog, then hope and healing will find you and begin to accompany you on your journey.
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