archives

Lying in a heart-broken puddle on the cold tile floor.

~ Photo: Vintage Marilyn Monroe ~

~ Photo: Vintage Marilyn Monroe ~

I was 15 years old, heartbroken, crying my eyes out on my bathroom floor.  

The door locked, the window cracked to let out the stale smell of smoke.  I was extremely fragile puddling on the cold tile, sobbing my little heart out for I don’t even know how long.  In my adolescent mind, my life was over.  My parents knew everything, all the lies, and all the truth.  I didn’t even know what to say.  I called my boyfriend for comfort who decided that was the best day to break it to me that he had found someone else.

“Is this some cruel joke?” I asked the ceiling.

Met with silence and the quiet fall of my tears, I sat crumpled on the floor.  I wasn’t getting up.  I wasn’t leaving that place.  I refused to face this new reality.

How could I go on (as dramatic as I could possibly be)?  My mind raced to find solutions and explanations between sobs.  I felt as if I was practically wailing and my mother was the cruelest person on Earth.  Any freedom I had had been stripped from me and that just wouldn’t do.  I knew I wouldn’t be able to survive.

I could have pushed my fists into the ceramic beneath me, but that probably would have hurt worse.  I looked at my legs outstretched and slightly bent supporting my weight, my back up against the wall.  That’s exactly how I felt, pushed up against that wall.  It was all my own doing of course, but I dare not admit it.

There was no way in hell I was taking any responsibility.  And so I didn’t.  I was too broken to at the time.

The tears began to dry up as they always do.  Emotionally wrecked and exhausted, I could still hear my whimpers although few tears still fell.  I sat there motionless unsure what to do next.  My mind still trying to wrap itself around everything that had unfolded that day.  Anger, resentment, betrayal, sadness, a feeling so painful of being all alone.

How could I bear this?

No sooner had I asked this question for the umpteenth time than a voice quietly responded, “you’ll be okay.”  What the hell?  I don’t want to be okay. How could I possibly be okay?  And the voice quietly replied, “you’ll be okay.”  Could this be true?

I asked this of myself, of this voice coming from deep within.  And sure as day, it came again, “you’ll be okay.”   I sat there, unable to move for a moment.  I wanted to deny hearing this altogether.  I wanted to pretend that this had never happened.

“You’ll be okay,” it came louder.  Ugh.  I hated this.  Deep breath.  I knew I couldn’t escape.  I met it with resistance, this voice.  And I slowly peeled myself up off the floor daring to peek in the mirror to see my swollen eyes and puffy cheeks.  I saw every single emotion I felt on my face.  My eyes told the story of surrender.  I stared at myself.  I knew it.  I knew it in the deepest part of myself.

I would be okay.  I could face this.  I could survive.

Years later, that voice has never left me.  I’ve hated it and loved it all at the same time.  I still go to my bathroom to cry.  I still slide my back down against the wall like I did that day, crumbling to the floor, I cry my heart out until the voice comes.  It always does.  It never fails.

Sometimes I wish it wouldn’t so for a brief moment, I could lie broken just to know what it feels like without the echo of you’ll be okay creeping into my conscious.  But I suppose that it not what is intended for me.  I’m meant to endure, to rise, to ultimately be okay.  So, I guess I listen.  I try not to fight it.  I carry on because that’s what my soul wants me to do. That crazy soul of mine that’s been speaking to me since I was a child.

You’ll be okay.

 

*****

 {Assurance.}

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