I don’t know how to speak from a place of raw pain. To be honest, I just don’t really like it. It took me years to figure out how to share my writing with anyone besides my sisters, and to this day they are still the only people that are allowed to read the stories about what hurts me.
I’ve always preferred my wounds to heal before I write about them. Nose to the grindstone and a stoic composure until the initial shock and pain leave. Stone facing the hurt until it’s far enough away that it is no longer reality and just the faint past of a life that belonged to me.
I prefer to keep my composure because then no one knows what’s going on within. Whether it’s perceived as apathy or strength isn’t really my problem. My heart has been around the block so many times that healing is like riding a bike (actually, like doing my eyebrows, I haven’t ridden a bike in years). Honestly, I’m thankful for the way healing is second nature now, because the hurts are never going to stop coming. Not as long as I’m on this side of heaven, they won’t.
There’s only one problem with being so well-versed in healing...
I have this bitchy friend that told me I always act like everything is fine, or make a joke about things, so no one really knows whats going on. So when everyone in the groupchat agreed with her, it was news to me (though it shouldn’t be). And I guess they can say that because we’ve been friends our entire lives and they’ve earned the right.
But what she said was true. I don’t lean on people to heal because I learned how to heal when I was completely alone. God is good enough that I can feel whole again without anything besides Him, but so good that He doesn’t always ask me to go through the process alone.
I have never felt more loved and supported than I do today. It hasn’t been easy for my friends and family that have worried about my silence, especially because my silence has always been perceived as joy and strength. And it very well may be, because joy and strength are the outcome of leaning on God to heal.
I just want you to know that silence isn’t always joy and strength. Silence very often can mean immense pain. The problem with silence though, is that it never indicates which one.
It took the observance and perseverance of four best friends (even my bitchy friend) that have known me my entire life to break the silence. It took a friend who always, always let me be honest with her, no matter how broken or messed up my issues were, without judgement, for me to get the words out. It took the unconditional love of my siblings and parents who reminded me that I am their absolute world to hear the cries coming from my broken heart.
Like I said, I don’t really like speaking from a place of raw pain. As if a moment ever goes by where my voice won’t matter. Where it isn’t strong enough, healed enough. Because if I can make a difference when I’m mere scraps of a person and don’t know it, I can write when I’m aware of my weaknesses. I think that’s the only difference between being enough and feeling frail, an awareness of your frailty.
So I’m here, too broken to write about anything light-hearted, writing this to all the people who heard me when I wasn’t saying a word. Every time you answered the phone in the middle of the night, every time you texted me because you hadn’t heard from me in a few days, every time you opened your door and let me cry until I couldn’t anymore, every time you picked me up whether it was 1pm or 1am, every time you made me feel like I was worthy of the time and love you spent being there for me, I want you to know that I have never felt more loved.
And it was your love that helped me speak.