I remember one Christmas, I was maybe about 13, the holiday proved very disappointing. I can't remember all of the reasons now, I can certainly guess some, given our situation, but it wasn't very joyous, never the less.
I remember surveying my gifts, spread on my bed, and feeling pretty down. I also remember kicking myself out of that feeling by telling myself to be grateful. Grateful for all of the reasons one should be grateful.
I look back on that now, and I know that my heart then was hopeful and seeking. Amidst chaos, I could find positivity.
Sometime shortly after that, it changed. I lost a lot of that hope, and chose instead to build walls of cynicism, high enough to protect my heart from thieves of innocence. It's not that I was no longer grateful, it's that I would not allow myself to feel hope. I resented hearing about others joys because mine had been robbed. I didn't want to hear about happy, perfect lives...because I stopped believing in them.
Years and decades built those walls into a veritable fortress.
More pain and betrayal made sure that the mortar was thick and no cracks would show.
I struggle still with letting in the light of hope. It comes in waves and, day dependent, I will bask in its cleansing warmth, or drown purposefully against its crashing.
JE LEEST
Shining Light into Darkness: From Trauma to Healing
PoëzieAn anthology of prose, covering the gamut of life experiences from heavy and difficult, to introspective, angry, light, and finally healed.
