Once upon a time there used to be a me. Now there are “empty remains” where there once was a celebrator of life. Feelings I felt are no longer there. The person I was, is gone. I’ve been hiding in an empty grave for such a long time there is no more me.
Where there was laughter; there are now tears. I was brave, now I am fearful. Where there was passion, now I am colorless. Where there was compassion, I find contempt. As I reach down within me to find these emotions I am shocked. I have been living like this for over ten years, not totally unaware of my misery but trying to stay on the surface of the grief as best I could without feeling anything. Ten years of mourning for the death of a husband and lover; the father of my children. Ten years that I have been laying in the mud. I can feel the shovel digging at my heart as I excavate the canyons of the soul I have been guarding for so long. The same shovel I used to bury my best friend.
I look in the mirror and even my physical self does not resemble who I once was. Would I be recognized if I were to be seen by someone who knew the other me? I can’t distinguish myself from this ghost I’ve been living as all these years. The empty shadows in my eyes are not familiar, for when I looked in them in the yesteryear they glistened. The gray pallor of my skin does not compare with the healthy, vibrant surface that once shone through. My shoulders once aligned are now hunched. The body once sensuous is now lifeless and dull by comparison. As I plod instead of strut through life I do not acknowledge me, for I do not know who I am.
My fog filled brain carries me through each day as I search for peace, yearning to escape from pain. I have given my power away to my pain. So long ago I would give nothing of myself away so freely, yet here I am now empty of feelings, passion, pride and well being.
This dig into my abyss jolts me into the present and I am not an eager visitor. The abyss you see has become much too comfortable and it will take some excavating to pull me out. It will not be a “new career” or a “new house” or a “new man” that will make me born again. Only I am responsible
for this new person, this new life, this new me. Each time I pluck out yet another smothered emotion I am closer to her, closer to this new me. As I trudge through the depth of my soul I will try to repair the cracks and cavities and fill the emptiness with the love that has survived for my children and my family. To leave this wound behind and start anew is my hope and my expectation.
