Healing hurts. I don't think there was a time I DIDN'T know that. But every time it's new, like I didn't know. Every hurt is its own, so the hurt is unique.
There's no way to really prepare for it. It's like the death of someone you love. Maybe they'd been sick for years, their suffering long, the fate imminent, but when the person finally passes, you're still sad. There's no preparation for healing. There's no easy way to hurt and no clear path for moving on. It's a one step at a time process. One foot in front of the other.
So that's what I'm doing.
My feet keep moving, slowly, like one of those zombies from The Walking Dead. No real direction, no real motivation, just moving to not stay still. Maybe what I have to accept is that this is as good as it gets, for now. To not be so frustrated with myself for not having some epiphany of spirit and mind, but instead be supportive of my feet just being able to move. Because they want to collapse. They want to stop and fall back and turn up in the air and rest. And just not go anywhere. And wait. For things to not have happened the way they happened. For what hurt me so bad to not be real. But that's not real. It happened. And it hurt. And the pain is the only thing I'm aware of feeling right now. The movement of my feet is recognizable only from the shuffle I hear from the dirt. I'm hurt.
There's this line from the Eagles song Hole in the World - what an appropriate title - that goes like this,
"They say that anger is just love disappointed"... Yes. And it hurts. Not the anger, the love disappointed. The anger is sort of like a drug. It's a rush of hot, passionate energy that made me feel powerful for a while. It made me feel like I was in control and not the loose lump sagging on the floor where he left me. It's not bad, it's natural. It was me trying to defend myself against the pain that was just inflicted, on my heart. Yes. Anger is the fist of the heart, swinging violently, trying to ward off the hurt. It worked for a while, but exhausted quickly. And then, what was left was me, with the hurt, tired and not wanting to move anywhere. Now, In the stillness comes the tears, and in the tears comes a light. I don't want to be down here, here, where I'm still alone. And nobody is coming for me. Here is a hollow place. So I stand up and my feet start to move. And right now, I'm happy they're doing that. Right now, I'm just happy they've got me. They still know how to move. My lungs still know how to breath. And my heart is still beating. I'll never know how it does that after it's been broken. I don't want to know. I'm glad for it. That's what I know. That some how, some way, things are working for me, without me knowing how, or why. They're working for me, despite me not wanting to participate at all. Despite me, things are working for me. So I must still be worth something. For some reason. I think that's what faith is, no? The shuffling, zombie footsteps, where someone else has taken the lead, and you're just following along, half alive, not understanding why, but still standing. And moving, One step at a time. thank you, @ http://thepsychmind.com/ for the perfect quote.