There is a gash in my soul. A cut so deep within me that it can not be reached, repaired or receive the oxygen it needs to dissipate. It is just there, perpetual and persistent in it’s inability to heal. It was small in childhood, one peppered with memories of love and pain. A dramatic youth full of loss, confusion and instability. Adoption and a stable family for years seemed to stop its growth. But relationships with friends and lovers, a husband and other strangers has gradually widened it, forcing a wall, built brick by brick, to protect it lest it explode, taking me with it. It is an emotional pain that does not go away. One that I would bet most people have buried beneath the memories that threaten their mere existence. I live with it… some days more aware of it than others.
The spiraling world of insanity in which the wound thrives is often hard to see in me. I am a generally happy person with few complaints. My day to day life is actually very blessed and amazing. I have the best children that God has ever put on this Earth. I am so blessed to work from home at a job that truly feels like a vacation every day and I have an amazing network of people who love and care for me. Truly, honestly, I have no reason not to smile. Not to thrive in this fantastic world I have rebuilt for us after a divorce that could have crushed us.
But as anyone who has deep cuts that refuse to heal knows, the impenetrable feeling that the other shoe will drop can overwhelm in the most unlikely form. My gash throws spears of inadequacy and insecurity, piercing any happiness or pride I have with myself with holes of uncertainty. It reminds me of the past, the betrayals, the abuse of my heart that stole my ability to trust and endure. It is the mark of the failures that have plagued me despite my successes. It is not depression… if it were, I would take a magic pill and hope to be cured. It is merely a nagging ache of instability that follows me through life.
I am not sure why I am even writing about it, to be honest. I suppose it is the desire to be a better person, do better, feel better. The aim to be the healthiest I can be from the inside out for my children. I have noticed lately that this gnawing gash is keeping me from taking chances, both emotionally and physically. It is holding me back from believing that I can do things that I want to do. Like get in better shape, find true friendships and maybe even a deeper personal relationship in the years to come. I find myself sitting across from dates thinking they are spewing nothing but lies. That even friends I trust may be out to use me. That family is forcing themselves to be around me for the simple tag of ‘family’.
I don’t want to be this way. I want to be carefree, trusting, loving and whole – or at least back to the fracture that I lived with from childhood instead of the gaping hole that came from the shackles of infidelity, lies and emotional abuse by those who claimed to care. If for nothing else, to be able to raise my children to trust. To believe. To care.
I don’t want to be a bitter mother raising bitter children. I don’t want them to think that I am unhappy. Because I am not. Not even a little bit. I have no regrets. Just a hole.
So maybe this is the first step to admitting that I need to do some research and work on the internal part of me that chains the external adventures. Maybe putting this convoluted post out there will show me that there should be no fear in admitting a weakness… even if no one else understand it.
Or maybe I am not alone and there are successful, responsible, loving mothers and women out there who also live with the gash within their souls that hampers their ability to let go and just be. Who knows… but I have to start somewhere.
And somewhere is here.