She came up for air. It felt cool on her lungs as she gasped. Then she was slipping again. Back into the darkness, slower this time, she watched the light fade further and further . . . fight back, she thought, this time fight back! She reached upward, willing her body to thrust forward, she fought. She knew she should fight, she wanted to fight, out of the darkness she wished to appear, stronger, happier, lighter . . . but even as she willed herself to fight she felt defeated. Doubt resonated above all else inside her, it echoed in her mind again and again – she couldn’t afford to lose another battle, to lose herself all over again, to lose all hope. Yet she knew not how to win.

My sister is having her baby tomorrow. I can say with sincerity that I am truly happy for her. I am happy that she will have the love of another human being; I am happy that she will be able to experience the gift of life; I am happy that she is having a healthy baby.
My tears are for her happiness. Yet behind them there is pain. I am also jealous, an emotion I feel guilty of, I would like to only feel true happiness for her – making my feelings for her more ‘pure’ somehow, but I cannot avoid the guilt because I cannot ignore the jealousy. As much joy as I know she will feel tomorrow when her little baby is placed in her arms . . .
I am happy that she will be able to experience that joy. I am going to try, diligently, to only feel the warmth of her joy tomorrow.


But for now . . .

Jealousy threatens to take my breath away. I am fighting back the tears because I refuse to let them flow. I refuse to feel their warmth upon my cheek. It may feel better to allow myself to cry, but I will not. I am not worthy of the release that crying may bring. Others would think it silly –tears for something I should have come to grips with, surely by now I should have made an attempt at acceptance – if only they understood the lengths I have gone to in order to make peace with it, even giving up God. At least I no longer question why. I want so badly not to feel. I want to slip into another body or another time, another place . . .

Recently I have found an escape. One I am embarrassed of. I have escaped into the thoughts of a tortured vampire, into a series of books by author Stephenie Meyer. A world so different from my own, a world where the pain of existence has purpose. When I began to read the first of the series I assumed that I would find some kind of solace and companionship with the main character, Bella. I never imagined that I would find myself in the stories monster. I should have known.

She

She had forgotten who she once was. She had forgotten who she once desired to become. She had forgotten her passions. She had forgotten her voice, forgotten how to sing. She had forgotten to see in color. She had forgotten how to live, and far worse, she had forgotten her reasons for wanting to live.
She first believed she had simply misplaced her voice, misplaced her passions and desires, misplaced her dreams .. . misplacement is far from loss and acceptance comes easier. And the loss had been gradual, unnoticeable at first. Days slid slowly into weeks, weeks turned into months, months turned into a year . . . the transformation now visible to others, for the loss had not been contained within, it spread like fire over her now, leaving only ash in the former place of all that once made her good.
Now numb, she had forgotten how to feel. Was this loss a chosen path? Was the change irreversible? These and others are questions she should have asked, yet these words were left unspoken in her mind, her own voice no longer heard. Her loss angered some and disappointed others. If only it angered her. No anger. No desire. No longing. No life. Just a bitter aftertaste of something now so removed it slowly slipped from memory. Forgotten, the feelings of the living. Forgotten, the notes of her song. Forgotten, the intonations of her voice. She would have forgotten to breathe if it had not come forced. She had forgotten to live. Time moved forward. Time and breathe became her world as all else darkened.
She lived in darkness. The absence of light her companionship. The voices heard now and then were not her own.

And then it was heard. One single note.

It's far too late for me to be blogging. I know this. I recognize that I become loose lipped as the night weans on. Yet lying in bed I had this stirring, to rise out of bed, to reach out through my blog. I feel my blog is healing in some sense, I've yet to fully understand the effects of placing ones words into the universe, ones thoughts, ones dreams, ones hopes, ones desires, ones failures, ones sadness, ones grief...placing these words, opening these words, sharing these words, in a way, letting go of these words and the pain behind them. Letting go of grief and dissapointment, letting go of pain and suffering, letting go of loss and sadness, letting go of anger and bitterness . . . my heart has been leasing space to bitterness and anger for far too long now, it's time a new tenant move in.