Posts tagged Laura

I’m raw. I feel as if 30 layers of skin have been sanded off of me, leaving the nerve endings exposed, sensitive, screaming out in their raw pain. Nothing to protect them from the chill air that only ignites them further. No protection. Nothing to deaden them. Nothing to soothe.

In turn, each organ has been taken out, laid bare upon the table and examined in front of me. One at a time. Kidney. Spleen. Churning stomach. Until finally my heart, always hidden and never exposed, was placed beating on the table in front of me. I could do nothing to protect it. Could not move to cover it. But just sit and watch it beat as others looked on. Watching as if in a dream, yet fully awake and feeling every second as each held it in turn, and passed it around the room. Each one gawking at its flaws and imperfections yet treating it with care. Each beat an eternity of immeasurable pain. The care and loving hands hurting worse than the exposure at first, though lessening over time.

And once the examinations were complete I was simply packaged up in plain brown paper and tied with the cheapest of twine before being sent back out into the world. A world that knows nothing of the exposing of my nerves. A world that does not see that I am still holding my own heart in my hands, desperately trying to keep it beating while shielding it from damage. I look at each passing person and am sure they see the scars, the throbbing nerves, the open, gaping wounds. Surely they see this damaged heart in my hands. Surely they see what is wrong.

But to heal I cannot hide my damaged heart. I cannot cover the abraded nerves or wrap the wounds in layers of gauze and tape. To heal I must leave them open. I must hold my beating heart out and offer it to others. I must show the wound and speak of the depth and length and breadth of it. I must be careful not to dive too deeply into it lest I become lost. Overcome or swallowed up in the chasm of darkness and unending hurt. Blind to the care shown by my comrades.

And I stand here, holding this damaged, barely beating, scarred and imperfect self in my hands, offering it to another, hoping they don’t turn away in revulsion at the wreckage. The nerves jangle at every minute perception, looking for any reason to convince me to cover them, bandage them, soothe them and hide them from the world. Everything on high alert. But the healing will only come from allowing them to remain open and exposed and seen by all. The pain is an illusion, though it is at the same time so astonishingly real. It will heal. The excruciating jabs will become warmth and joy and life. Somehow. Some day.