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Monday, August 29, 2011

The Tunnel

Every day, the tunnel closes tighter and tighter around me.  It’s gotten so narrow I can scarcely crawl through, anymore.  Most days, I just rest my cheek against the roughness and try not to take too many breaths for fear of using up the last one heedlessly.

I know there must be an end, even if that end is simply the end of me.  Surely this struggle can’t go on forever, right?

In this darkness, in this confinement, I have grown resentful and even fearful of the light.  It is to be distrusted and avoided.  So ... if I do come to the end of this, will I ever know?  Will I crawl back in so as to avoid the light?  Will I pinch my eyes so tight I will never see light again?  Is it possible that the light I remember will be the last light I will ever know? 

It feels like I have stepped into another reality.  It feels like everything I ever thought I knew and everything I ever believed are merely paintings on the walls in this new universe in which I live.  Even though the reality from which I stepped wasn’t perfect or exceptional, at least there were colors and there was a certain depth.  Here I find myself in a flat, dull world where everything feels muted.  It is as if there is a thick padding of numbness surrounding me and keeping me from touching and tasting and hearing and existing in a way I used to know.  It is not just the absence of pleasure and joy - even pain and anger and disappointment are dulled.

Even suicide seems like a far distant fantasy.  I think of it in the way I think most people think of sleep an hour before bedtime - with a sense of “not yet” paired with an equal sense of “soon”. 

I hear the same promises.  Now when they are broken, the shards hit the charred out remains of my inside and rattle around rather than hitting my tender, vulnerable flesh and cutting it open.  The disappointment is far away and barely tangible - as if I am watching a foreign film with no subtitles and I’m not certain that the scene is really what I think it is.  I feel confused and dazed, but I will not allow myself to peel back the protective layer of numb.  If I did, the pain would be astounding and overwhelming.  So the promises come - and inevitably go - and the efforts are doubled - and dropped - and I watch it from far away. 

When things are at their worst, when I am left with no outlet, nowhere to turn, no way to release, I imagine the cold granite mix of Table Rock and I think of the natural dips in the rock filled with rain water.  In my vision I am laying naked on the rock - tummy down - with my cheek pressed to the uncomfortably bumpy stone and one hand stretched out to touch the cold water of the pool.  The familiar loamy smell of the forest mixed heavily with evergreen overpowers the scent of the rock - though I can still smell it if I really concentrate on it.  It is my place I go in my head when I feel the roof caving in over me and nowhere left to go.

Like yesterday.

Yesterday he said, “You look resigned.”  Oh yes.  Yes.  Resigned is precisely the word.  It is all I have left.  “It is what it is.”  He will not hear me.  He will not listen.  He will not change.  It is, quite simply, what it is. 

I know that there are those who would be angry or sad or who would want to infuse me with their positive cheer, but I am resigned.  There is nothing left to hope for.  It is.  What.  It. Is.  After being told precisely the opposite of what I needed to hear, and after being blamed for blaming him for shortcomings only he saw and after being screamed at for expressing disappointment, all while remembering the vile, horrid things that he said via text messages about me - I just sort of caved in.  I went to the rock.  I let myself meld with the image so that I became emotionally like the stone itself.  Cold.  Hard.  Lifeless.  Resigned.

All night, I have been resigned.  I worked on a plan for a Cub Scout Pack in which I have no personal investment.  It is like dragging myself naked across the stone I mentioned earlier - painful, but comforting, too.  It is a familiar pain, a familiar path, a familiar thing to wrap myself around.  It is fruitless and it is wasted effort.  I do not love this like I love the stone.  I do not want it like I want the stone.  It’s just something to do in this dark, dank tunnel while I wait for the end - whatever that may be.

Oddly, I am not impatient for the end.  I am just waiting for it.  This can’t go on forever.

Right?

Posted by Liberty on 08/29 at 05:16 AM
Posted under: See-Through

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Cathy Cathy  at  09/01/11 07:45 AM

You’re back! You’re back! Oh, Happy Day!

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Cathy Cathy  at  09/01/11 08:12 AM

Ok, now that I’ve actually read your post, I’m not so enthused. Still glad you’re back, but so sad to read where you’re at with things. Keep writing… maybe you’re stuffed up with all that you haven’t been saying and everything you’ve lost is just buried underneath. (((HUGS)))

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