Every bone in my face throbs. My sinuses ache from the pressure of the tears. My eyes, swollen and sticky.
This has been the worst night of my entire life.
Can you really believe that? Can I? Is this real? Such a declarative, superlative statement. “Worst night” and “entire life.” Exaggerating? I’ve got to be kidding. Please, let me be kidding.
Honestly, I can think that only the death of my husband or baby girl could top this, but even that — death is natural. This? This is as unnatural to what a human *should* experience as abuse. Is this abuse? All emotional and spiritual lines are blurred.
A terrible, terrible irony. They cry because I’ll be tormented in hell for eternity. I cry because they are tormented in a hell on earth. Their hell is because of my hell, but I don’t even believe my hell exists.
I’d do anything to bear their pain, to free them of it. I cry out, begging a god I don’t believe in to let me. And what’s so crazy is that I could and so desperately want to; I need only sacrifice my authenticity. Yet, it’s the one thing I’m so franticly trying not to do, lest I repeat a tragic past mistake in which I literally allowed myself to be abused in a hazardous attempt to save my abuser.
What dreadful symmetry.
I’m treading water. My Self nearly drowning in the ocean of my dysfunction. A war wages in me. I stare at the knife in my hands, see the loved ones I’ve killed with it, and hear they’re dying words blaming me. “Undo this,” the ocean screams. I need only to turn the knife on myself, and they’ll be revived.
But instead, I watch them lay dying.