Blocks

Silence.  It sings when perfectly still.  With the constant banter in my mind it is hard to find a silent spot.  But when I do, I find the warmth in being all alone. 

Sleeping well evades me as I roam our home.  In the dark I am listening for that silent tune where there is no fear.  No screams.  No pain.  No awakened anguish.  These times when I'm all alone are few.  I cherish them and hope for the next time not so far away.

As a child I loved to be alone.  These were moments when I was safe.  I could play in my room for hours; always in a corner facing out but alone and content.   Even found in a closet, darkness and pieces of air could be a symphony.  The whispers of my friends were welcome but even they learned to listen to the music.

Much more pain and many more shattered friends later; the silence has all but disappeared.   Each chance to be alone I embrace.  I hope that in this time I will hear that peace I loved so much. 

But then the chatter starts and builds block upon block.  There is no safety in numbers as the distractions are so great.  Angry at the peace they have obstructed, I swing to topple those blocks.  But as they crash the sounds only grow more intense.  I stop and look at what I've done.  The damage I myself have created. 

I turn my back on them as if they have no voice.  But their tiny words pierce my mind.  I hold my head.  I pound with my fists.  I take a pill.  Nothing works to drown them out. 

In desperation I pick up a block and I see it for what it is.  A tiny piece of a careful wall constructed all around me.  Protection from the worst. 

I listen as the block begins to speak; not a scream yet not a whisper either.  I want to throw it back into the pile but instead I pick up another.  The more I listen, I realize what I always knew.

These blocks were once the safest corner in which I played.  And then he destroyed that protective angle in which I fit so perfectly.  Devastation as my childish hands picked up the bits and block by block a wall began to form.

A small stack of blocks behind me show a tiny bit of progress.  Many more blocks are scattered.  One block.  Two blocks.  Another and another.  Some are heavy.  Some are sharp and jagged.  Some are big; the cornerstones.  And then the tiniest of pieces; shattered as they bore the worst.

As I ask to listen their weight lessens.  And a painful yet simple I'm sorry smooths away their exposed rawness.  With that they are ready to find their spot in a new and wholly constructed wall.

And my strength is reinforced.

Joe

Burned, bruised and broken.  One split lip on top of another.  A line of bruises march up your back like a second spine. 

You cut your lip walking up some stairs.  The bruises come from childish horseplay. 

Nothing big.  Not for a tough kid.  Accidents happen because I'm clumsy.

Don't touch my neck.  Don't touch my shoulders.  Don't touch my back.  They all hurt but it's no big deal.

It's hidden why I can't sit down.  Why I wince as a blister pops when my shirt shifts just so.

Such a hot burn leaves such a cold bubble behind.  It's funny how that happens as if the fluid is the blister's way of saying sorry for hurting as it sizzled and later puffed with defiant pride.  A protective way to hide the tears.

As the liquid seeps on past my skin I straighten stiff to keep my uniform shirt from touching.  If I feel the coolness reach my waist I have a chance to hide the tears my ugly back always cries.

These are the tears that I do not have to cry.  They are locked within my skin reserved for burning.  Silent, secret sobs as my skin heaves with pain.

Bruises heal and skin always knits.  But my scars, they weep forever.

Integration

This past week has not been an easy one.  Not that most of my weeks are easy but this one was a greater struggle. 

Part of my healing process involves the integrating of my various personalities or "parts".  The easiest way to describe it is in watching a certain part step behind the shadows in my mind; no longer distinguished by a look or a voice.  Ever present and audible but as me instead of them.  Small fingers lace between my grownup fingers.  I squeeze a fragile hand and watch it melt into my own.

As the parts converge I often see a blending of colors.  My color is blue.  Other times I see numbers and the sum of the parts come together to equal a new whole.  But along with these hues and figures also come the tactile memories. Worn and aching to them; fresh and raw to me. 

I am flooded with these thoughts of the past and they become my present.  Feel the floor beneath my feet.  Touch the couch that I am sinking in.  I only wish these things beneath me would pull me in and past the hurting surface.  A crying child is in the corner.  A broken baby alone on the floor.  A dirty face is frozen with terror.  And he is pulling at my legs as he creeps up to control me.

These desperate children slide behind me as their pain is lifted away.  Their stories become my own; a painful anthem no one wants to hear.

Feel the couch and focus on a familiar face.  It is not real.  Just a memory.  But it is real.