Sometimes we pretend to be okay, but we're not. We're screaming for help, only, we don't make a sound. Days rush by between the fight to get out of bed each morning, the blur of whatever happens between that moment and when we face our pillows again, and the struggle to fall asleep. It's so hard, sometimes, to fall asleep.
It's so hard, sometimes, to stop crying. And other times, it's hard to find the tears and release the cry. Looking back at ourselves, we remember moments in our lives when we did seek help and no one noticed. Maybe we never uttered the simple word, but in every self-negating comment we made, there was a plea for help. Maybe we never vocalized the extent of our pain, but we did try to show it. We showed up for school or work late; we missed deadlines. We ate more or less than usual; we sabotaged good relationships or sought out bad ones. We argued with God--not literally, but through our inability to embrace His decree for the challenges we should face in this life.
Some of us are tired. So very burned, so very tired. Going through the motions of being a human seem so meaningless. Solutions like pill-popping or forms of trendy self-destruction either don't work at all or only work for so long. And for those of us who have overcome our hardships, looking back still brings on a strong pang--a reminder that there was once a wound that will never heal. It still never healed. Some of us simply conceal it better than others. But I, I am haunted.
I contemplate. I remember. Simple conversations when I tried to brush all my internal sufferings off as something light or something that could be easily overcome. Moments when I hid through the facade of thick skin. And those times when the pain was foaming above the brim and I was terrified of it spilling over into the public domain. And then I survived again, and here I am. Again. Like foliage that has been given too much sun and wind, still living but barely. And the wind keeps coming, and the sun keeps beating, and I don't know anything but this pain.