In a recent post, Not All Of Me, I put a few links to some of my older posts. After drafting the post, I checked each of the links to make sure they worked.
One of them was a link to my post, An Untold Life. I ended up reading it for the first time since I posted it. I couldn’t get past the picture or the first few words without crying. Just the thought of any of it is so terribly sad. Tears rolled down my face as I read through the whole story again. I struggled to see through my tears to read each word. Even the comments were emotional to read. It has left me crying since.
I realized that it could have been written so much better, and yet there isn’t anything I would change about it. Because while reading it, I could sense, and feel, and remember how terrified I was while writing it. Those feelings were palpable to me as I was reading.
It isn’t just the story, or how sad it is, or what happened, but the fact that I’ve had to live with it locked up inside of me all these years. It is also the fact that I still have not fully grasped all that has happened to me. Most of the sadness lies in the fact that I never got to feel, or experience, or mourn any of it.
I shut down, became numb, and disappeared in my own life, from the reality of what happened. I existed only in every one else’s reality of what they defined or needed that I be.
I can’t fathom what anyone would have been thinking, or feeling, or could have even experienced in their own life that would make them want to harm the innocence and fragileness of who I was, of who I am. They would have had to hate the light, to hate innocence, to hate the love inside of me.
There are no words to describe the deep, deep sadness, and pain, and scars it has left inside of me. There are no amount of words or poetry that could ever do it justice, even if I wrote a thousand poems, even if I wrote one every day for the rest of my life!
But it has made me realize why I have a need to try. It all needs to go somewhere. Imploding is no longer an option.
I think the only way for me to mourn any of it, is one poem at a time. It is after I write them, that I can feel the feelings and begin to cry and mourn and even acknowledge that it happened at all.
I couldn’t cry enough tears to wipe away all the pain. I can at least get rid of the denial and face the reality that these things did happen, and that they happened to me. I can at least keep moving forward. I can at least voice it and release it and try!
All of this has left me with so much sadness. While I do not live in this sadness all the time, the sadness does still live inside of me!