For the past two mornings I have woken up on my couch. I don't even remember falling asleep here the night before. My body is twisted and contorted in the blankets as part of me is crammed into one corner, part of me is dangling off the edge, and at least one limb is wedged down behind the cushions. As I lie there trying to piece together the events of my life that have led up to this moment this morning, it just comes across as a blur - an unbelievable blur. My apartment is silent except for the light breathing of my two slumbering cats, and the lazy hiss of the radiator. I've been waking up around 7am and the sleepy morning light that streams through the windows is both inviting to engage with the world out there, but also insistent that perhaps buried in my couch is the best place to be today.
In those first few moments of coming into awakened consciousness, I feel restless. I know my dreams have been filled with a sense of anxiety, uncertainty, pain and suffering. I cannot remember them when I wake up, but my body and my mind are tired in such a way that suggests a battle throughout the night with these sorts of things. As my senses slowly tune into all that is around me, still twisted and half buried in my couch, all I can feel is the absence, the silence, and the sorrow. Yes it is another day and another start, but it is painfully lacking what used to be. It wasn't a smooth transition. It was a violent jolt out of what once was into a dark abyss. I am desperately trying to cling to the sides - to anything that will keep me from falling. And all the while I keep repeating, "this is not my life."
I have spent most of the past two days watching the world through tear-filled eyes. It doesn't take much these days - a sound, a sight, a memory, a place, a subtle breeze - hell, even a crumb on the floor would probably make me lose it. As I am walking from moment to moment I become so overcome with emotion that I literally cannot breathe. My throat swells shut and I have to stop and literally gasp for air and try to calm down. I feel out of control of my body. It does what it does. I try and control my emotions and my thoughts. I expend so much energy each day trying to get through it without completely losing my composure. To say it is grueling would be an understatement. It's constant, persistent, nagging, abrasive, and refuses to give up its occupancy in my being. It makes me tired, yet I refuse to give up. I refuse to give into this fight for something that I believe in and know in my heart of hearts is true. What kind of a person would I be if I did that?
When I came home from Korea, I remember having similar battles with my body and my emotions. I was scared and felt completely out of my element. My life and the world that I knew was completely tossed upside down. In coming back, I had no choice but to make sense of it again. Try as I might, there was a void that could never be filled. And while it has ebbed and flowed since I've been back, I can still feel its presence or some left over pieces of it floating around - unable to be corralled. I gained a new perspective, many new perspectives, on my own life throughout that experience. As the emotions swirled, the thoughts jumbled and collided, and as my body broke down, I knew I had to find a way to heal.
The ability to use my voice, whether audibly or written, has been one of the most healing aspects of my various life journeys, including Korea. For the past couple of days I feel that I have not been able to use one of the my most therapeutic and necessary tools. Holding my words, my thoughts, my emotions in, with no release, is destructive and imprisoning. I'm held captive by my own silence. Let my voice be the flashlight. Let my voice be the ribbons tied to the trees so you can find your way home. Let my voice continue to speak of beautiful things that you know are true and you know are right within your heart and mine. Let my voice be heard in a way that you haven't heard it yet. Please...
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