Category: small stories

Your Prison

It’s ok.

Vulnerability is hard, but I don’t judge you for it.

I don’t judge you for not knowing. For finding it so difficult.

Your tears don’t frighten me.

Your fears don’t frighten me.

I see your overwhelmed humanness

I never had any other expectations- you had already placed so many upon yourself.

I can not fix it for you. But I will be here while you try. A hand to hold, a shoulder to lean, an ear to listen and a heart full of compassion to rest in.

The walls you built to hold you up imprison you with your demons. You have made it hard to reach you, the noise so deafening you can not hear. The frustration of self so loud you think the sound is outside your head and coming from my lips.

If you looked in my eyes, the reflection of you that you would see is one of gentleness, kindness, love

Not the unworthy monster you believe is lurking.

Yet- you think I must lie. How can I see your strength, your beauty, your worth? You demonstrated it over and over to those around, but forgotten to save a bit of light for yourself.

The light you gave me to hold once, when my own battle became so dark I could not see, is a treasure I wish to return to you, to light your way. But you can not see enough to take it.

My heart aches watching you battle. Seeing your wounds erupt from within. I can not love you enough to fill the holes you keep tearing. How can you believe your grace is poison?

How can you believe you are not loved?

I ask the Gods to help you, to hear you, to guide you through. I’ll always be here, when you release yourself from the dark.

Shame

Shame perverts everything we do.

Why? What do we have to feel shamed about? Emotions? Needs? The flesh that carries us? The mind that creates? Our desires? Fears? Our successes? Failures? Our mistakes? Our vulnerability? Our kindnesses?

The shame we carry can make us closed, cruel, judgmental – indifferent to expressions of gratitude, love, caring, joy.

It divides us.

We push it off on others, not acknowledging it is our own burden we carry. We believe that love, compassion and understanding are not for us. We are not worthy.

There is so much I want to write- so much I want to express. I just want to roar

FUCK YOU

I don’t want this any more.

Fuck you to anyone who has ever made you feel lesser than.

I will not be shamed for my vulnerability

I will not be shamed for my caring

I will not be shamed for my body

I will not be shamed for my willingness to try

I will not be shamed for my past

I will not be shamed for who I am

I will not be shamed for the love I give

I will not be shamed for trying to heal

I will not be shamed for my truth

I will not be shamed for asking for help

I will not be shamed for offering help

You can try,

by your words

your actions

your silence

to tear me down

to your level

Here I will not stay

You can keep your judgements

You can keep you helpful arrows

You can keep your cloak of shame

I will shed mine and rise above

Hold It

The sacred honour of holding stories comes with a price. 

The space I create for the words you need to spill, the poison you need to excise 

Burns

Burns a hole

Deep dark ugly secrets fester

I learned this lesson from the other side – so very few have I spilled my bile on…. 

watching them run in horror from my contamination- burning through the space they gave me

This place now locked. 

I believe this had fortified me from the same danger. That the space I could give was impervious to the acid of the tragedies you tell. I know what the poison will do if not relieved from self. I wear these wounds.

I must keep my neutral mask in place, my eyes have changed.

Will justice prevail? Not in the face of fear. Not this time.

Silence- I can only tell my story, but I carry the stone of yours, I see what is in your shadow.

It is not mine- only as a witness. I will soothe my burns, seal it up, create the space for another. Taking a moment to reflect if this is what my own toxins have done? Had it changed the eyes of others? Is this what made me invisible? Is this what turned them away?

I can clear the burning from my own eyes, I will still see you, just as I will see others.

The sacred honour of holding stories can come with a price. 

Pain

Sometimes you can’t tell just by looking.

Maybe when I move, you’ll see a pause, hear my breath. But just a little.

You can’t see the fire I feel, the ripping burn that just settles in. The raw grind and pop. The loudness of it in my head makes it hard to hear the outside world.

When asked, I pause, ‘fine’ I say- it’s exhausting to talk about any other way.

The forced encouragement I whisper to myself to move, stretch, to do what simply needs to get done, to not cry or complain.

It’s always there.

Just by degrees

A good day( usually after treatment), it’s hardly a thought. Not forefront in my thinking, not in my way.

A bad day, sometimes there’s a reason, sometimes there is not. It creeps in like a spiked steamroller. The loudest voice in the room. Some days only one sings it’s angry song. Some days it’s a duet.

At this moment it’s a four part harmony with a smouldering back drop. No steadiness, no focus available, except to will myself to the task at hand.

I do the things I can and hope it’s enough, I reassure the frustrated tired me that relief will come.

It’s all I can do, because some days you can’t tell by looking.