Show me your bones

I love that my heart is so attached to writing. I hate that I only visit when my heart's longing can no longer be contained. I love that writing releases what I've been trying to manage and sort and box up so neatly, but I hate that I wait until I have emotions stacked to the ceiling to describe. I end up writing more seriously than I imagine my usually comical self to be. I think I'd rather be a comedian, but I let things build up too long--- so I'm more like the thick aired morgue versus the trendy mod comedy stage.

I suppose, for some purposes, it's good to shed some light in the dark places people choose not to hang out. It's good to bring up the bones in the cooler as comfortably as the most rehearsed punch line. I guess, to be honest, I like talking about the bones hiding around this place, because I'm not quite done with them. I like to pass things off like I've done the mourning, I've done the changing and I'm just in general- D.O.N.E. But that would just be good joke material. No one's ever really "done" with those bones. They still have a way of showing up under furniture and down curious hallways. Enter a new person, and you have artifacts showin' up all over the place- behind the doors they recklessly throw open out of adventure and excitement. Or, exit the random dog that just carried off a piece or two of your skeletal baggage to be found on some aimless walk. For me- they're always turning up.

I have a bone in my hand I ran across today. I picked it up because I recognized it instantly as one that had been hidden somewhere in this foundation of mine. Like I mentioned before, it's one that has been found on multiple occasions. I picked it up, knowing there was something I was going to have to do with it. At that moment, I wasn't sure what to do, but toss it back and forth between the air and my hand as I kept on with my day. I didn't let it trip my step, I just kept going, swinging it back and forth with my pace- trying to make it a casual movement of time passage and a maybe a mindless game of catch between hands. Buying myself time.

I sat down tonight, in the quiet of my home. I sat that bone right in front of me and I looked at it. I'd like to break it, but it's a femur of a thing- it's the strongest bone I have creepin up on me. That's exactly what it is- the hero bone.

Being a hero has never been a negative thing in my eyes. Being a strong woman has always been quite the compliment. But, I find, when I keep waving that damn thing around, people who are approaching to help, get clobbered. The irony is, I WANT THE HELP- I WANT TO PUT THIS BONE TO REST- but I can't seem to bury it deep enough. It keeps crawling back. Scrappy lil demon.

On top of beating my help, I can't even crown myself with the glory of feeling strong "enough". I never feel like I'm ACTUALLY strong, or CONSISTENTLY strong, I just try to push in that direction (overbearingly so)- and seem to fail when I'm unwinding my day in my shower with all the held back tears and whimpering.

"FAKE HERO LONGS FOR HELP, HELP WON'T COME CUZ THEY SEE A HERO"

I don't really wanna be a hero (well, not ALL the time). So, where did this strong bone come from? Why would I have grown such a thing if I'm not REALLY that STRONG? Was I really let down enough times to build up such a thick, haunting structure? I know there's layers of "I'm not good enough" in there, probably the marrow of the whole deal. The original cells grown out of a lie whispered into my beating heart, pumping directed blood to the site. I probably condoned the construction, telling myself I was pushing myself to be "better" (if that's what independent and calloused is---"better").

This bone, my hero bone.... I don't want to keep hiding it- where I forget that I have it lurking around- until some unsuspecting Samaritan trips over the thing in attempts to save me. I'm thinking I will display it- like on my window sill or something. My gory little reminder to be a bit more fragile- a little more vulnerably inviting.

I can't always show love playing hero, so maybe I can show love by letting someone else be a little heroish FOR me.

Free to breakdown. melt down. settle down.

I will not fall silently

There's no doubt in my mind that falling is nothing short of humiliating. Sometimes we laugh, to brush off the stares of others who saw the flailing affair. I tend to laugh because I never cease to surprise my own self with my ability to find new ways to stumble. Ask me about the time I hung out of a bus by my shorts, or the time I tried to skateboard down "stairs", or the time I flew off the trampoline trying to impress a very cute vacuum salesman. They are good stories. I tell them loudly and enjoyably detailed.

The moment you ask me about a REAL fall, my voice will quiet, my gestures will cease and the amount of words I use to try and elaborate will decrease incredibly. This is not characteristic of just me. There aren't many I know that like to relive their failing moments in the spotlight (unless they are able to attach the saying "many years ago, back in my rebellious stage" to the beginning of the tale). I have said before, I tend to shut up when I see myself sliding into a slippery situation. I don't like to know OTHER people know I'm about to do something fairly ungraceful and unbecoming of the woman I otherwise would like them to know I am. I just don't want them KNOWING. Even worse, I don't want them WONDERING. I surely don't want there to be knowing, but wondering is horrible. Wondering involves unanswered questions, and judgements and speculations. If I am going to mis-step, I would prefer to do it in a darkened ally, where I can regain my composure and move on as if nothing happened.

The sad part about falling quietly is, who can help? Who will be there to protect and prevent? Who will be there to help clean up the spill? Maybe I would save face in a dark ally, but I sure would carry a heavier burden of wound cleaning on my own.

I have such incredible respect for people who do not hurt and fall silently. It takes a LOT of guts to be brutally honest about our stumbling blocks, AS THEY ARE HAPPENING. It takes a brave and strong soul to keep speaking AS they fail. I love those people for their courage and transparency.

Years ago, when I was married, I began to hurt. I began to fail. I could have spoken. I could have expressed what was happening, but I was too afraid of the mess of having too many surgeons in the operating room. So, I performed my own surgery. I amputated the source of my perspective pain- my husband. I left to heal, but no one understood what I was healing from. They didn't see the fall, they didn't see the attempted recovery. I wouldn't let them. I didn't speak. And because I didn't speak, I didn't recover. I am no surgeon, the amputation I performed was less than shoddy. But no one was there to give me perspective. Or warn me for that matter. Or better yet, guide me through the proper maneuvers. Instead, I silently made my way through fall after fall, fail after fail, blindly hoping to pull myself together. Now, let's be honest- there were those who tried to help- who tried to protect, but I didn't let them in, because I wasn't telling my story. Not truthfully anyway.

I've learned that when the only receiver of your beating fists and your angry questions is your pillow, you rest on a sponge of unresolved pain. All those tears are soaked into one place, not taken FROM you and processed, they are right there hiding under your face when you drift to sleep. You dream your fall. You awake and feel tired from the reminder of your fall. You end your day, resting on all the details of your fall.

The moment you take your failings to someone- a live respondent to your humbling predicament of ungraceful movements- you get perspective. You get help. You gain an advocate. You no longer let your pillow absorb all the gory moments of your slips and trips to be hidden forever, you end up spilling them all out in front of you, in front of THEM- and together you SEE. You see the mistake, you see the second by second replay of what SHOULD have happened, but just didn't seem to pan out. You see the place where healing began or WILL begin.

Falling is inevitable. Failing is, too. Speaking your stories of falls and fails means inspiring others who fall and fail. Whether they are inspired by your courage, or by the way they got to help you- they are changed. They are moved and are purposed by the story you carry- and the story they now share WITH you.

Fall loudly. Help will hear. It will still be a really good tale to share.