There are times when I feel heavy words trying desperately to burst forth from some dank prison where I have hidden them away far down inside of me. When my heart holds something too big for it to contain; something that must be said, said now, and said well. Those crushing words strain within me with great urgency, seeking to find a way to give voice to some deeply buried pain. To some dark secret. To shameful, fateful experiences that forever changed my path and my destiny.
This is one of those times when those words rise like bile in my throat. One of those black times. But I cannot vomit.
At this particular moment, I feel the burden, the longing, to expel my thoughts and feelings, but the words completely elude me. They dance in dark shadows, taunting me. Playing a deadly game of hide and seek. My conscious mind can’t quite reach that far down within to grab whatever it is that is coiling in my gut. My heart feels defeated and numb. Weary. I am unable to express what I so hope and desire to say. Must say! I can’t paint the picture I need to paint. So I struggle and wrestle until I am too tired to fight for another second. And my frustration swallows me whole.
It is so similar to my childhood, I can’t deny the parallel. I can’t ignore the connection. To my childhood, when I had no voice. When the words were impossible to form, even in my head, and they could never find their way into my mouth, onto my tongue because it was dangerous to examine them. When even if I had found the words, I would dare not speak them aloud. There were consequences to releasing them into the air. Consequences I couldn’t bear.
I kept my mouth shut. I swallowed everything. All those emotions I hoped to distance myself from. All that agony. I put my own hands over my mouth and clamped them there. I silenced my own voice so I could survive.
And that is what I did. I survived.
Surviving is overrated.
In the years that have passed since I fled my parents, many events conspired to keep me voiceless. To keep my hands clasp tightly over my lips. The words I needed to speak were not palatable to those I hoped would find a way to listen. Instead people plugged their ears and closed their hearts. Also, who I had become wasn’t worthy of acceptance or support. I survived, but I was scarred. The scars made me repulsive. Hideous. The hideous are not given the gift of being heard. Transformation isn’t in the cards because love is required to achieve such miracles. So I remained alone and my words remained lodged in my throat out of necessity. I could not spit them out because even I couldn’t stand to hear my story.
I speak to no one by speaking to everyone. It is not as fulfilling as would be opening up directly to some live person. Making a genuine connection. Printing words in cyberspace and casting them adrift lacks the personal touch. But it is better than not speaking to anyone. In any way. Ever. At all.
I stumble about in the dark, unable to scream or to make the slightest sound. I try to find adequate words to explain. But in the end, I find that I have no explanation. I remain wrapped in emptiness and isolation. Silence prevails. I am as I always have and always will be.