“To let oneself be carried on passively is unthinkable.” -Virginia Woolf

At the end of most days, I presume we tell ourselves lies in order to rest fully, softly, soundly. We drift in and out of our subconscious minds, begging and then refuting inquiries we cannot fathom to observe and assess.

We look at our choices with a tainted lens, giving no regard or grace to our bruises. Shame and disorientation infiltrate and consume us, and we are faced with two choices: to run and deny, or stay and observe.

I stay. God, I stay for so damn long. I overanalyze and nit-pick. I inhale and I remain engulfed in the commotion of what-was, what-happened, and mainly, what-the-hell-was-I-thinking.

I live here, in the space between regret and forgiveness.

Most days, I rise in hopes of resting my fingers atop the keys of my laptop and finding refuge. I want the answers to spill out of me. I want to believe the floodgates of healing and clarity to exist, and I want to believe they’re anxious to saturate me.

I stay here and pray. Truthfully, I sit and I convince myself these prayers are too small. I sit here and begin to believe I deserve this anguish. I chose this. I drown in remorse and desolation. These emotions are home; they welcome me in expectantly, and I try and fail again and again to combat them.

Instead, I sit. I wait. I learn patience and endurance. I learn to examine and perceive. I learn to speak kindly to myself. I teach myself to be gentle with my mind. I re-trace my footsteps. I start to believe I can do better. I convince myself I’m bigger than my choices. I pray there’s enough healing out there for my mangled heart. I sift through conversations and expectations and I learn to release my grip on them. I begin to understand what is gone and what is still very much here. I learn to discern what I can control and what I cannot. I breathe.

I’m still here, my fingertips searching for and finding the right keys, pulsing and aching to say more, bleed more, let more go. Soon they will be raw and pleased to be so. These monsters inside of us aren’t the enemy. These bitter, unconventional, crippling bouts of pain are essential in evolving. They’re crucial for compassion and grace. They’re points of reference to draw back on and rummage through. They’re our own valleys to voyage through, our own waters to navigate.

The process and the pain is damn near debilitating, but we are more real and fragile because of it. We’re more human after it. We’re still moving once we establish we aren’t alone in any of it. We’re still waking up in the morning with feeble attempts to make amends with the decisions of our yesterdays. Our hearts are still ferociously beating on, patiently waiting for and expecting the healing we know we deserve. Our fingers are still anxious to stir and produce. And so we beat on, crafting and re-vising what we think we know for sure, what still hurts like hell, what we hope won’t last, what we hope stays forever.

I live here, in the space between regret and forgiveness.

I’m not alone here. I see others wandering and wavering, questioning and denying where they belong, if anywhere. I’m going to wake up tomorrow and continue on in my reckless pursuit for a place I can safely call my home.

Tomorrow, again, I will rise.



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