Ramblings of an Inquisitive Mind

Lately I have realized how tired I am – physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I am exhausted. My wicked brain tempts me during these times with horrible thoughts, under the guise of seeking peace. I want to rest. I want to hide. I don’t want to battle anymore. Sleep – sweet sleep – no more pain – no more suffering.

I have battled almost all my life. Battled my sexuality, battled my alcoholism, battled to be me in a world that does not accept me. Battled cancer, battled alongside friends facing illness, and now I continue to battle as I watch my mother slip away from us slowly, day by day. Last year, my mother was in the hospital and the doctor gave her a 20% chance of making it home. I was not ready to hear that – I never will be, but now this awful disease is taking her from us a little at a time. It hurts to see her in this condition and my heart breaks each time I visit and see the progression of her Alzheimer’s disease.

I am tired of battling, tired of fighting to be alive, and tired of fighting for love. I am not going to lie to you – my mother is a hard woman. She can say things that cut my heart right out of me, then stand there holding it in her hand and showing it to me. So I cannot explain this next statement: I love her beyond belief. She carried me and brought me into this world and my love for her is beyond measure. I cannot imagine a world in which, when I call, she will no longer answer the phone. I cannot imagine a world where I cannot look into her eyes and see the devilish sparkle that has always been there. Will I be able to breathe? To move? To survive? I am not sure.

My head is full – my brain hurts. I feel the pressure inside pushing against my skull. All I want is for it to stop. Stop the grinding wheels, the constant stream of thoughts, the screaming in my head. The exhaustion – the depression – the sadness – I just want them all to stop. Today as I was driving to work, I thought I could slit my throat and find comfort by feeling the warm blood flow over me; find relief as I watched the sadness, darkness, and sorrow drain from my body. And that is when it hit me: That is exactly why I must write. Writing does just that for me. It allows me to cut myself open, pour my darkness out into the open, and then begin to heal.

Writing is important to me. It is my way of being in this world. My way of finally being heard, of feeling worthwhile and worthy. There is a funny thing that happens to me when I am with my family: Sometimes I ask a question and no one will answer me. It is like I am not there. I know that is why I long to be heard and to be understood.

I remember coming home from college one weekend and attempting to have a conversation with my mother. I remember sitting in the Bi-Lo parking lot in Waynesboro when I got the courage to finally speak to her. I was trying to be honest and, I guess, seeking comfort, warmth, and love. I told her I had thought of killing myself.

She lost it. She yelled. She screamed. How dare I have such thoughts! She was livid. When we got home, she made me tell my dad what I had said. He just looked at me and said, “I am sure everyone has had those kind of thoughts.”

So writing is my comfort. It is what I must do to survive this crazy world in which I live. I am sure my darkness is frightening for some, like my mother. But for me it is what makes me real. All my life I have battled and longed to be loved and comforted. A lifetime of battling can make a person very weary. But the only thing to do is just keep putting one foot in front of the other – just keep trying to survive.

Writing has given me the strength to keep breathing, keep healing, keep moving forward even through the darkness. Writing is the only way I know to keep the walls of this deep, dark pit from collapsing on top of me. I worry that by not censoring these stories, I may cause some of you to turn away from me. But I must pour them out because I can feel the soil begin to break free from the walls as I am trying to claw my way out of this pit. I can feel the darkness closing in around me, and the only light I can see is to speak my truth. The only way to claw my way out of this pit – my only chance at survival – is to write, and in doing so free myself from this eternal darkness.