the choice to heal

The last few weeks have been hard. They have been painful, and they have been enlightening.

I spent about an hour of my life yesterday sobbing. It started with the typical girly frustration over finding something to wear, and quickly deteriorated into the disillusionment of my dreams and the invalidation of my soul.

I am accused, quite often, of being too emotional. However, the past year I have more than once been concerned with my lack of feeling, my newfound ability to become numb. Yet still, I am accused of being too emotional. Of ‘taking life too seriously,’ ‘thinking too much’, and my favorite – being ‘crazy.’

I refuse to see how it is crazy to look around at the world and want more – to expect more from people. It is not crazy for me to refuse to have my life determined by other people’s values and other people’s expectations. I respect everyone else’s decisions, and yet, somehow, my every breath becomes belittled and questioned for its sanity.

I should clarify, because I by no means intend to generalize here, or refer to everyone in my life. I am referring to the closest people – to the members of my world that are vital and very powerful in my life. Some people’s advice on this is I should simply remove these people from my life. However, family is a very important value to me, and I have fought this long to keep mine relatively intact.

On the other hand, I am finding it hard to breathe.

Each day I am attacked, in various ways, and then accused of being sensitive or paranoid. I am invalidated in ways I never could have imagined another person could make me feel. Perhaps it is true – perhaps I am sensitive, but in that case I do not understand how some people get treated with respect, regardless of their ‘sensitivities,’ while others are not.

I am a giver. I give of myself, with unending grace and understanding. This is a quality that is very important to me, and I want to continue to be a person who assists others in opening their eyes to beauty, and giving themselves chances to live more fully, more authentically.

But I am disheartened. And if I shared my feelings with anyone to which I refer, they would merely tell me that I am not well, I am depressed, and that I need help. However, I am not depressed, and I do not need help. In fact, never before have I realized the true potential of my Self – of the fluidity in which people may effect the world if they merely take the effort to stand. I am aware more than ever of my gifts, and my passion, and of the goodness that is laying latent within the earth. So I am not depressed – but I am disheartened.

Disheartened more than anything that the people in my life all hate each other (and sometimes me) almost as much as they hate themselves.

Perhaps hate is a strong word. Perhaps I mean they have merely become all too comfortable in their bitterness and negativity (but let’s all call it being ‘realistic’ since it makes us feel like we’ve grown up, rather than given up.)

And I am disheartened that I have to edit my thoughts and my feelings, because they will never be accepted, or understood, by the people that truly matter to me. Disheartened that the previous paragraphs will probably get me accused of being everything I aforementioned. Because they are provocative, and they are honest, and they are far too Real for anyone in my life to deal with.

In the end, I am disheartened by my environment; it is quite obviously not one in which I can fly – I am barely allowed to glimpse at the sky without being called a tree-hugging, over-emotional dimwit. It has become terribly apparent to me that my choices are dwindling, and I may have to leave. As much as I like my home, my New England, and I feel comfortable here, I am realizing that perhaps God does not wish for me to be comfortable. Every time I have found a modicum of comfort, happiness, and peace in Massachusetts, life has brought me pain too palpable to ignore.

Great choices are made when we are uncomfortable – when our discomfort and our pain force us to find a new path, one in which we can breathe, and grow.

So perhaps I have to ask my pain what it wants from me. I think perhaps I have just repeatedly bandaged myself up, and then wondered why I still find myself bleeding all over the ground. I have covered and recovered a wound, without healing it from within.

I have reached a point where I either learn to become numb to the pain, or I make the choices necessary to heal.

For I know, deep down, that only then… when I heal… do I have the opportunity to do something truly great, truly grace-full… truly holy… with my life.

But I have no idea whether I will be strong enough to take the bandage off the bleeding wound.