I’m up at 3:00 am and just know my mind has to work out the kinks. I tried going back to sleep but gave up a half hour later. Brrr, it’s cold, dropping from high 80’s the day before to 60, rainy, and breezy. After shutting a few windows, I pull on my winter robe and patter out for coffee and the world news. Others are up at 3am too, both newscasters, Monday through Friday. They look a lot peppier though.
I finish up on the computer, wondering if being so graphic with a comment on a blog about the prolonged sexual attacks by Chet were too gross, and would disgust others. I wrote exactly what my helplessness allowed him to conspire me to do. I decided it’s honest. And honest, finally, is what I’m about, honest and authentic. It’s still dark. The studio beckons.
I feel comforted by this small space, as it warms me with its familiarity, soft lighting and music. I open the window enough to hear the birds starting to wake in the pre-dawn, especially that mocking bird. It must be the same one from last night, a young one singing long after dark, the only one, a delinquent, too happy chortling melodies to go to sleep.
I’m happy with my new mosaic, coming alive with sparkle and pizazz, but I’m struggling with the pieces. So much like life, my work. Some pieces are complicated, others easy, and fit just right. And others I just have to accept won’t be perfect, and every little thing doesn’t matter anyway in the big picture.
I wish relationships weren’t so sticky. I wish that others wouldn’t make me feel as if I’m being manipulated and tricked. Tears fall onto the broken pieces. Broken. I have broken parts, which isn’t the same as “I’m broken.” Shattered. All around my core was shattered. My core took hits, the blasts causing a few chips, yet it remains whole. I’m lucky, and appreciative, I’m still here after all, kicking, crying and trying.
So instead of beating myself up because I feel manipulated and tricked, I allow this thought, this belief— some things in me were broken, were changed, and irrevocably changed. Accept that. When treated that way now at any level, even more minor infractions, I am hurt deeply.
As the tears leak out, before chastising them back where they came from, I say, “It’s ok to cry. It’s ok to feel hurt, allow it up, and feel what you really feel, rather than shoving it back down again because it’s all just too silly to cry about, and not worth it on the scale of important things,” things I say to talk myself out of feeling pain or crying.
My discussion with myself continues as I meditate. Counting all the way to ten only happens a few times because I’m crying. After the half hour is up, I feel better. This is progress I decide. Because my modus operandi in the past, and that still challenges me is —stuff the hurt deep down, then get back at who hurt me. This is not a feel good method. Hurting others has an aftertaste. Vindictiveness bites back. By allowing the pain that is truly there to wash through, up and out, I feel cleansed, and can forgive…again. With some people it’s an ongoing process, including myself. And time away from those that caused the pain, to re-group, plan, and make better choices of who and how I want to be, is also a good thing.