It is said the pain will come in waves....big, small, mediocre ones. Regardless, pain is pain. If this pain means I get to know a happier, stronger me, then so be it. If sleepless nights means the fruits of my mind shall manifest itself, then so be it. If this exhaustion and wear on my heart, mind, and soul means I will be whole once again, knowing all the joys and glory of enduring, then so be it. If it means I can understand one person and can make a difference in one person's life, then so be it. My resolve hasn't been the best as of late, and I've been struggling to remain a nice person and leave behind the inevitable bitterness. Today, my heart has been weary, crying, giving way to hopelessness and despair. Actually, I believe I've been feeling this way for a very long time. It is the undercurrent that clings to the corners of my subconscious. I've been busying myself doing absolutely nothing. And as a result, NOTHING is happening for my heart. And then something like Aunt Flo decides to creep up on me, and it all comes tumbling, walls come crashing. And my heart is left open to all the debris and aftermath of the hurricane that's been my life as of late.
Honestly, I have nothing to complain about except the pain. I guess, since I've been so busy, trying to get through all this shizznet, that as it all finally settles...I have time now to FEEL the effects of someone else's choices. Yes, I know I was probably too good for him and way too brilliant for such a dull person; but I, Sabrina, the ever intense, emotional Sabrina, after giving every part of me to one person for nine years...well, I feel CHEATED. It's kind of the same feeling I have with Dallace. Who said they could check out this early in the game? Friggin Libras! Well, boys, find your balance somewhere else...it's time I tipped my own scales on my own account.
I can do this!!! Let it come. Let it come in waves. Let it come in endless tides of frothing, scalding water. Let it beat me to the edge. Judge me, discourage me, laugh at me in ridicule, poison the air around me, wrap your claws around my neck, pull me down into darkness, overcome my body, snip at my heels with your gnawing, hungry teeth, burn me to a crisp. So be it but I am Messenghi. I am the face of will power. I am the definition of endurance. I know that on the other side of this dark world, is a land that stretches in eternity with happiness and sweet, blissful peace. Today I'm bent in tears, tomorrow those tears will have washed my feet in preparation for this walk, this path I travel and I alone travel it. No one else on earth today can take these same steps, no one can know the extent of my travels, the pains I've suffered except the one chosen to bear it all for ALL of us. SO BE IT!!
“I am so clever that sometimes I don't understand a single word of what I am saying.” Oscar Wilde
Realize your own beauty...
The Alchemist knew the legend of Narcissus, a youth who knelt daily beside a lake to contemplate his own beauty. He was so fascinated by himself that, one morning, he fell into the lake and drowned. At the spot where he fell, a flower was born, which was called the Narcissus.
But this was not how the author of the book ended the story.
He said that when Narcissus died, the goddesses of the forest appeared and found the lake, which had been fresh water, transformed into a lake of salty tears.
"Why do you weep?" the goddesses asked.
"I weep for Narcissus," the lake replied.
"Ah, it is no surprise that you weep for Narcissus," they said, "for though we always pursued him in the forest, you alone could contemplate his beauty close at hand."
"But...was Narcissus beautiful?" the lake asked.
"Who better than you to know that?" the goddesses said in wonder, "After all, it was by your banks that he knelt each day to contemplate himself!"
The lake was silent for some time. Finally, it said:
"I weep for Naricssus, but I never noticed that Narcissus was beautiful. I weep because, each time he knelt beside my banks, I could see, in the depths of his eyes, my own beauty reflected."
Just another one of those nights....
“We started working on the potty training a little bit today. He hasn’t gotten the concept of aiming, hence the bleach smell in the bathroom,” she smiled fondly as she spoke. He turned to her and smiled, knowing the boy was the safe topic. It felt so wrong to hide behind something so precious and innocent. But here they were, barely able to talk to each other civilly unless the subject matter was the boy. The boy. He took her hands and smothered them in his gigantic hands.
“He is smart like his mama. And stubborn like his daddy…” his voice cracked. He felt no response from her. He sighed and let her hands fall out of his. He bent down and kissed her forehead with all the love he had left for her. He turned and walked out of the room feeling defeated yet again. And at that moment, he felt a little bit of the hate rising. The resentment. She was pushing him away. And he was breaking. He felt out of control, lost, and his world was slowly falling apart. He didn't know what he wanted anymore; didn' t know where to look to for help.
She watched him retreat. Bitterness ate away at her heart. She kissed her baby once more and stood and slowly walked out of the room. She shut the door gently and walked into their room, past the bed that he rarely slept in anymore. He usually fell asleep in the recliner. She didn't care anymore. Her anger consumed her and she felt alone most of the time anyway. She felt inadequate, unworthy, and slighted. And everyone around her pissed her off with their empty promises of things turning out for the better. What did they know? The hurt was tangible for her; every miscarriage like a big fat bitch-slap in the face. And the sting lingered, never leaving, burning inside her. In her mind, it was like fire. She stood in front of the mirror again. She lifted her shirt, exposing her midriff. Gone. Empty. Useless. The tears came and flowed heavily, streaming down her hard face and a howling commenced in her soul. She opened the linen closet and reached for a long box. She slid a long bottle of rum out and uncapped it. She'd been doing this for two weeks now. Ever since she told her husband to keep his hands off of her. Eating and drinking. Packing the pounds on and drowning in booze. The first swig burned and she watched herself in the mirror, disgusted. By the fifth swig, she was giggling at herself as her tears dried and delirium set in. Sixth swig. Seventh swig. One after the other. And the pain still remained though it was dull and riding under the current of intoxication. She slumped to the floor, half-sitting on a stool and let her thoughts swirl until they were indiscernible. She laughed silently and gathered herself off the floor and trudged to the bed. And surprisingly, he was there. Snoring away but there. And she felt more tears. She loved this man. She couldn't figure out where this resentment was coming from. But she knew she was angry and frustrated. She couldn't shake that and she could see he was suffering for it. Yet, it continued.
She plopped onto the bed, not caring if it would wake him. She was jealous that he could sleep so soundly...so well while her mind was a wreck, preventing her to go to sleep. Sometimes she felt like smacking him just to wake him. To be spiteful. How evil!?! She laid down and slipped under the covers. He rolled over and sat up, blurry eyed, asking her if she was okay. She whispered an answer and turned over. He pulled her to him and curled his body around her, holding her tightly. And the rum worked it's magic, lulling her mind to sleep. She closed her eyes and for a while there were no dreams; no demons; no anxiety. Just quiet slumber.
“He is smart like his mama. And stubborn like his daddy…” his voice cracked. He felt no response from her. He sighed and let her hands fall out of his. He bent down and kissed her forehead with all the love he had left for her. He turned and walked out of the room feeling defeated yet again. And at that moment, he felt a little bit of the hate rising. The resentment. She was pushing him away. And he was breaking. He felt out of control, lost, and his world was slowly falling apart. He didn't know what he wanted anymore; didn' t know where to look to for help.
She watched him retreat. Bitterness ate away at her heart. She kissed her baby once more and stood and slowly walked out of the room. She shut the door gently and walked into their room, past the bed that he rarely slept in anymore. He usually fell asleep in the recliner. She didn't care anymore. Her anger consumed her and she felt alone most of the time anyway. She felt inadequate, unworthy, and slighted. And everyone around her pissed her off with their empty promises of things turning out for the better. What did they know? The hurt was tangible for her; every miscarriage like a big fat bitch-slap in the face. And the sting lingered, never leaving, burning inside her. In her mind, it was like fire. She stood in front of the mirror again. She lifted her shirt, exposing her midriff. Gone. Empty. Useless. The tears came and flowed heavily, streaming down her hard face and a howling commenced in her soul. She opened the linen closet and reached for a long box. She slid a long bottle of rum out and uncapped it. She'd been doing this for two weeks now. Ever since she told her husband to keep his hands off of her. Eating and drinking. Packing the pounds on and drowning in booze. The first swig burned and she watched herself in the mirror, disgusted. By the fifth swig, she was giggling at herself as her tears dried and delirium set in. Sixth swig. Seventh swig. One after the other. And the pain still remained though it was dull and riding under the current of intoxication. She slumped to the floor, half-sitting on a stool and let her thoughts swirl until they were indiscernible. She laughed silently and gathered herself off the floor and trudged to the bed. And surprisingly, he was there. Snoring away but there. And she felt more tears. She loved this man. She couldn't figure out where this resentment was coming from. But she knew she was angry and frustrated. She couldn't shake that and she could see he was suffering for it. Yet, it continued.
She plopped onto the bed, not caring if it would wake him. She was jealous that he could sleep so soundly...so well while her mind was a wreck, preventing her to go to sleep. Sometimes she felt like smacking him just to wake him. To be spiteful. How evil!?! She laid down and slipped under the covers. He rolled over and sat up, blurry eyed, asking her if she was okay. She whispered an answer and turned over. He pulled her to him and curled his body around her, holding her tightly. And the rum worked it's magic, lulling her mind to sleep. She closed her eyes and for a while there were no dreams; no demons; no anxiety. Just quiet slumber.
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