I have to deal with them, but they are as cunning as a fox.
They whisper in my ear sweet songs of sorrow, pain, and fear.
Like sirens singing loud and clear.
Tearing down the old is not for the faint of heart.
I’m constantly wondering: Will I get through this part?
I feel raw and vulnerable as hell.
Like a turtle without its shell.
What if all my demons are in me?
How do I slay them, move forward, be free?
I wonder if it’s done one demon at a time.
Is this how peace could finally be mine?
Freedom from this would be so sublime.
But doing it one by one would take too much time.
Time is an illusion, that’s what they say.
And that positive thoughts will make my pain go away.
That type of thinking doesn’t appeal.
The truth is, I must work through it. I have to deal.
I’ll have to remind myself it’s going to be okay.
Maybe I’ll believe it, and it will be true one day.
I tilted the corner of the page into the fire, the flame catching. Tilting it back, I watched the edges blacken and disintegrate into ash as the glowing orange line continued to meander down the page,consuming the words. Releasing it above the fire, it fluttered down to meet its end.
For two days, I poured the callings of my soul onto the pages, burning them afterward. Sometimes I’d hold on to a piece of writing a little longer, reading what stared back at me again and again until the words no longer held power over me.
Ava came in and out, making sure I was eating and drinking. She opened the curtains little by little and eventually opened the windows. I was too deeply entrenched in my musings to object, and enjoyed the light breeze that moved past me as I sat in the chair by the fire.
The words that had triggered me were so simple. So common. I could see now that grief, stress, exhaustion, fear, and my past had coalesced in that moment, providing a perfect storm for the dark thoughts to consume me.
I was no stranger to those torments, having experienced them many times throughout my life. There were moments when I was younger that I wondered if no longer existing would be the easier path—the thought coming and going in the blink of an eye.
One by one, I disentangled the words that cut so deeply that it felt as if they marked my soul. Some from others, some from myself. It didn’t matter where they’d come from. I read a quote once that said, “Someone only needs to be cruel to you for so long before you do the job for them.”
With each page, each realization, I stepped further back into myself. The truth was, I was good enough for Eithan. He loved me, cared for me, and would have forsaken his family and his betrothal for me. He was my best friend, and there was love there for me.
As for my parents, I had to ask myself if I grieved for them because I loved them or if I grieved the fact that I’d never experience the love a child intrinsically craves from a parent. I suspected the latter. The shattered hope of a child who realized they would never again feel that all-consuming parental love. There was a grief one went through when starting the process of healing from that truth—that the love and approval you’d pined for your entire life would never come to fruition.
I think I’d always held on to the hope that they would love me like that one day. And maybe they had loved me as best they could—but it hadn’t been in the way I’d craved.
Maybe now that they were gone, I could heal, their deaths like re-breaking a bone that had never set correctly. Painful but necessary. Gods, what a thought.May they spare me from judgment for this. May I spare myself.
The pen hovered over the pages, poised to capture my thoughts and condemnation of what I’d just uncovered—only, it stayed still. No ink stained the clean, crisp page that lay before me.
