Thursday, September 2, 2010

I am Blinded

I am blinded. It is not from an impairment or disease of my eyes. It is not from the bright light emanating from the center of the sun finding me wherever I go like a spotlight. It is not from the silent, still darkness of night that creeps on my backside like a heavy burlap sack filled with dread. I am blinded by a raw emotion. Rage. My mind traps me like a room with no doors or windows and all I can see are disturbing images of torture and abuse. I try to get out, banging on the walls while screams escape my throat hoarse from shreds of air. However, no sounds can be heard beyond these walls, as if I stand behind walls that wish me to silence – walls that do not want me to speak or be heard. I cannot, no should not speak of the things I see. But I will. I see the marks that remain, the bruises that cover my body like algae covering a pond in the thick of a humid summer heat wave. They gradient in color from a spoiled yellow to a dark, deep purplish black. The scars left from lacerations that at one time poured out my blood at the hands of his sins. I hear screaming in my mind that can curdle the contentment of any sane soul. I am taken off guard by the actions my mind is urging me to do to the person I hold accountable for my rage. I am shaken by the profound revelation that I feel capable to do these ghastly things.

I am a kind, good person who is tormented by these memories. The memories are left like fingerprints on my soul that cannot be erased nor forgotten even for a briefest time. Burned into my being, my makeup. I do not want to believe the love of the purest kind can be so tainted by actions of selfishness, hatred, and greed. I ask the many chaotic whispering voices in my mind, “Why me”, but comes no answer just the words echoing in my mind. Repeating like a broken record left playing in an empty house that creaks and cackles at the stillness.

I cry myself to sleep almost every night. I seek to understand why me only to abandon the desire of a reply because I know it will never come. I find contentment with myself that the confirmation to understand it would be better spent to seek the answer to, “Why not me.”

The tears stream down my face leaving wide, wet paths of salty water that burns my cheeks. I cry so hard I can hardly breathe, lungs gasping for air, unable to catch my breath. I feel sorry for my pillow. It truly takes the brunt of my anger. Nevertheless, lies still by me like a steadfast friend –almost acknowledging and understanding my unyielding, abusive actions upon it. It suffocates me in its many folds as I shed wasted tears. I recreate the scenes in my head. Throwing my poor, undeserving pillow to the ground as if it means nothing. I punch it so hard it caves in the middle only to find it shapes itself back to its original form. It is resilient. It is like me. Bouncing back like a ball tied to a string being pulled when it gets too far away. I look down at my hands balled up into fists void of fingers and speak aloud in a thunderous voice, “Why me, I ask you again?” I hear the silence breaking with a reply from a fragile, tiny voice within me that says, “For if not me, then who?” The pain is a slow agonizing self-torture that renders me helpless and humble. His actions methodical and planned, my reaction reserved and subdued. I see now, I am no longer blinded by rage, but sadness fills my heart that is so void of happiness. Pity resides here now, for soon his blindness will come too. He will ask, as I have done for so many years “why me”, but the silence will be met by six thunderous voices that say in unison, “Guilty.”

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