witifulramblings

Posts Tagged ‘sadness’

Day 106: Sometimes We Have to Find Our Knees

In Beauty, Books, life, Sadness, Thoughts on March 15, 2014 at 6:15 am

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If you have ever read the book Little Bee then you probably remember this line:

“Sad words are just another beauty. A sad story means, this storyteller is alive. The next thing you know something fine will happen to her, something marvelous, and then she will turn around and smile.”

Or this one:

“We must see all scars as beauty. Okay? This will be our secret. Because take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, ‘I survived’.”

Some days I feel like I’m writing a very sad story, and some moments I feel like my scars are so deep they’re imprinted on my heart. The cover of the Little Bee story features a black silhouette of Little Bee’s profile and written all over her face is scrawled the title in twisted and tangled letters. I have to admit, I couldn’t even make out the title of the book in the store, and it wasn’t until I began to read that I realized it read–Little Bee. Looking at the book again tonight sitting her aside my computer, I realize the letters are Little Bee’s scars written all over her face, her face then plastered on her story.

Tonight I sit trying to make sense of my own scars, trying to sort out which ones are jagged, raised, white from years of settling, fresh with redness and newness. I’m a thinker. Sometimes I spend hours trying to figure out these scars, how to wipe them away and make myself flawless again. Tonight I am reminded that scars never disappear, they are marks of survival, they are part of our story that got the chance to keep being written.

I fell to my knees in prayer, not because I’m religious, but because I needed some thing else to hear my story even if it was just the air. I needed to show my scars, to itemize them, and then I needed to remember that a sad story means that I am alive and with the flick of a page I will turn around to smile again.

a whit.

Day 97: Looking.

In Acceptance, Couples, Dating, Faith, Happiness on October 10, 2013 at 2:56 am

I’d lost all hope in love, and then I found it…and then I lost it.

The sadness is consuming and overwhelming. It hurts so bad, grieving hurts more than any physical pain and its hidden so no one sees it.

There is nothing lonelier than a blank phone, an empty bed, a quiet house, no one to share memories with, no one to share accomplishments with, no one to have fun with, laugh with, cry with. 

It’s so hard trying to mitigate this hurt. It’s a lonely process. 

There was a time when we first met, I think it was actually one of our first dates. He had gone fishing and he brought home Shad to cook–it was a rather bony fish and it didn’t turn out that well. The other night I visited with some friends and somehow the topic of “shad” came up, I told them how my boyfriend had once cooked it for dinner. They laughed, “that’s bait, you ate bait, no one actually eats shad.” I realized then that those are just memories, they’ll never happen again–not with him. I won’t eat “bait” again with him. It’s funny the things we hold on to, the things that seemed so insignificant at the time. I can’t glean a “lesson learned” from this, but I am trying. I have waited so long to meet someone who loves me. Where is he?

 

Eat Oatmeal and Plant Ficuses: One Woman’s Divorce Strategy: Day Cinq

In life, wit on July 20, 2010 at 5:15 pm

I’ll start with my marriage because that’s where it all began and I promised to tell it to you just like it happened to me.

On that day in May when I picked up the phone and called my Mom out of desparation it wasn’t because I knew what was wrong. I had no clue. I knew my body was failing me and my mind was no longer analyzing everything in sight. The previous two days were spent on my couch staring into the white window blinds. I can still remember those blinds. To me, they are different; they represent a time in my life when staring blankly at window blinds seemed like a good idea.

I had pulled out my suitcase and already begun packing. I think I only got two pairs of underwear for myself and the clothes I packed for E were nowhere near coherent, which is totally not me. I explained to my Mom that I needed a flight and it needed to be that day. I wanted to go home, even if it meant I would stare at the blinds there, I knew it was the only place for me. My husband appeared and asked me what I was doing. I need to see my family I told him; afterall that was the truth in my mind. It wouldn’t be till much later when I would recognize the whole truth; I needed to get away from him.

I don’t remember the flight or the arrival or even greeting my Mom at the airport. I only remember two things: being home and eating oatmeal. That’s what my family does when things get hard, or you’re sick, or any other malady whatsoever, they feed you oatmeal adorned with protein powder. The secret to getting better must be an amino acid buildup—and I did get better. It took weeks. At first, I just sat, and slept, and listened to the voices all around me. I felt as though my sister bounced through the house and I thought, “that should be me,” but I wasn’t ready for bouncing.

 Five weeks later came my first big feat, I planted a tree. I remember picking up the shovel and wondering if I could do it, could I? I began to dig, at first with great effort, but as I peeled away the top layer of soil it became easier and slowly I realized I could do it, I could plant a tree. That night I sat on my parent’s bed and began to peel away the layers of my own life, digging, slowly, and with enormous effort. Two hours later I was resolved, divorce. I don’t recall now the details of this particular session except my little E. At eighteen months he approached me. I remember his eyes exactly as they were–those empathetic baby blues. If I could imagine the eyes of God, staring at His child, those would be them. There I was, on a bed, feeling so lost and my baby reaches up grabbing my hand simultaneously, he wraps his body around mine, “Mama, don’t cry.” And I stopped.

That day, on the bed, I didn’t plant a tree. I only began to dig an enormous hole. Perhaps, now you see why I appreciate my analytical self (although I recognize the occasional detriment of it). For there was a time when I couldn’t find that me; a time when I didn’t even know if I could complete the simple task of planting a ficus (I just had to use that word). A time when window coverings entertained and oatmeal served as my dietary staple.

From Mrs. to Ms. whit. ing. addict

Today, and excerpt from my left brain:

what kind of tree did you plant?  Is it still alive?  To serve as a humble reminder that you made it through.

A weeping willow.

It is.

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