Writing Around In Circles Until The Truth Comes Out

Each time I start to write, thinking something profound will come from my words, 

Nothing does. 

I have all of these profound thoughts to share with the world about how it feels to live with Chiari, and how it feels to live with a history of emotional abuse, 

and how it feels to just want life to be "normal".

I stare here blankly at the screen, in my dedicated writing time 

and I'm blocked. 

I realize now that the block is not caused because there is nothing to say. 

The block is because so many words can't fit through my mind hole and filter down to my fingertips. 

Like rushing waves crashing agains a dam, waiting for the spillway to open up. 

All I feel is loss. 

For a person that is upbeat on a most regular basis,

A princess that has found her prince, 

An heiress to grace, 

All I feel is loss. 

No, no loved ones have passed away. 

No further tragedies have occurred. 

My loss is deeper, graver, 

Etched into my being. 

I'm often reminded of the tragedy of the unlived life. 

I vow with all that is in me that my story will be one that is lived out in technicolor. 

As I vow, a tear rolls down my cheek 

and I wonder. 

What hinders me in living my dreams full out? 

What keeps me small and still (at times)? 

And what is my purpose really to be? 

Is it to be the mouthpiece and the spokesperson for all who suffer with my same neurological disorder? 

Is it to help carry the broken to shore while mending their limbs? 

Is it to be strong and true and keep putting myself out there in relationships with friends who will never remain friends and family that barely remains family and a public who forgets heroes as quickly as they appear? 

Should my writing be more dramatic? More factual? More autobiographical? 

And quite honestly, does anyone really care? 

Should anyone care? 

Should it matter that children are starving in our country and all over the world? 

Should it matter than an unfathomable number of pregnancies are terminated in the womb? 

Should it matter that churches oppress people to the point of abuse...While using the name of God? 

Does my voice even matter anymore? 

Am I effectively ineffective? 

Where are those who vehemently supported me in leaving an abusive marriage? 

Where are they now but in the camp of my abuser? 

Where are they who supported me through my surgeries, held my hand when I was fearful, 

Eased my pain? 

Hiding behind their own wounds I suppose. 

The ones I inflicted when the great darkness came and I fell into loss. 

These thoughts go through my head and I slay them one by one. 

I cover the transgression with love and bid it farewell, 

To be neither seen nor dealt with again. 

And that works just great until another blow hits. 

Another pain surfaces. 

Another blow that hits below the belt and crumbles me into a pile of rubble. 

Then once again it smashes down and I begin the slow march to restoration. 

So today, with a headache and blurry vision, I am digging myself again from the rubble. 

Going through the motions-Getting from A to B. 

Getting the work done...and most definitely doing the work. 

The work of living, of pushing forward, of pushing through. 

I'm grinning and bearing it (with out the grin). 

I just wish it didn't have to be so hard. 

Honestly, all I want is one day without some sort of physical pain. 

The emotional pain I can handle (I think).

I just want to have no pain...just for today. 

Aren't I selfish?

I know...I'll do what really works. 

I'll just smile and say I'm okay.

Works every time.