They told me
That over time,
I would feel less
Poisoned by you.
I didn't believe them.
They told me
That time
Would help me heal.
But they couldn't
Tell me
How much.
They told me
To stay.
To wait.
Hang on.
Just breathe.
They told me
I wasn't ruined.
They told me
It wasn't
My fault.
They told me
I deserved
The moon
And at least
Ten thousand stars.
They told me
That the sun
Would shine again.
I didn't believe them.
But they were right.
- kb
Tuesday, September 26, 2017
Wednesday, September 20, 2017
The Wave Is Not The Sea
My therapist warned me early on that the pain, grief, rage, depression, etc. would come in waves, and it's true. She also warned me that when the waves came, there was really nothing I could do except be in it and feel it. Nothing would make it go away or stop or hurt less. As pessimistic as that sounds, it's just true, and it was helpful to know that it was simply out of my hands. Numbing and distracting (for me, in the form of self-harm) were dangerous options that I was trying my best to avoid.
At first, and for a long time, the waves were huge and came one right after the other, so close together that I couldn't even come up for air or catch a break in between. I've said before that I don't have very many memories of the first couple of months, and this is why. It's virtually impossible to be mentally present anywhere when your mind and heart are under water. Very, very gradually, the waves began to spread out ever so slightly, and the more times I got knocked down, the easier it got to stand back up after it passed.
I mentioned to my therapist at one point that I felt like the waves were starting to get smaller. She countered by saying she didn't believe that wasn't true; the waves weren't getting smaller, I was getting stronger and more capable of handling them.
I came across this quote last year and it has become something of a mantra for me:
These words have brought me so much hope, because for so long my life was nothing but turbulent and troubled. Nothing but huge, painful, devastating waves that felt completely impossible and unbearable. I couldn't even imagine an eventual version of myself that wasn't constantly being mercilessly thrashed around and pummeled by this. It felt like everything and it felt infinity and it felt like forever. But when I take a step back and look at how far I've come in the last year, I can appreciate the truth of these words. I still have days where I have to work hard to believe them, and the occasional day where I give up believing them completely. And therein lies the challenge.
So, remember:
The wave is not the sea:
This horrible, impossible thing you are doing or feeling is not everything and it's not forever.
(Even though it absolutely feels like it. That's okay. You can't see past it when you're in it).
The wave is not the sea:
What you're experiencing now is a part of a greater whole; a chapter, not the book.
The wave is not the sea:
There is so much more. There is hope.
The wave is not the sea:
Hold on. Give it time. Don't give up.
For me, it still comes in waves, but it looks very different now than it did a year ago. While all of the pain, anger, grief, etc. persist to varying degrees, and while waves still knock me down from time to time, now I can see the horizon. Now I know I can do this rather than just hope I can. And now I'm learning to skillfully swim at depths that I never thought possible.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
On August 24th, exactly one year since learning that my worst nightmare had become a reality, and on the day that my divorce was final, my sister and I got these words tattooed. In honor of their truth and of the fight to believe them. In honor of the breaking and the healing. In honor of the wave and of the sea and of each other. In honor of surviving. In honor of hope.
At first, and for a long time, the waves were huge and came one right after the other, so close together that I couldn't even come up for air or catch a break in between. I've said before that I don't have very many memories of the first couple of months, and this is why. It's virtually impossible to be mentally present anywhere when your mind and heart are under water. Very, very gradually, the waves began to spread out ever so slightly, and the more times I got knocked down, the easier it got to stand back up after it passed.
I mentioned to my therapist at one point that I felt like the waves were starting to get smaller. She countered by saying she didn't believe that wasn't true; the waves weren't getting smaller, I was getting stronger and more capable of handling them.
I came across this quote last year and it has become something of a mantra for me:
"When our days are turbulent and troubled, our challenge is to remember that the wave is not the sea." - Mark Nepo
These words have brought me so much hope, because for so long my life was nothing but turbulent and troubled. Nothing but huge, painful, devastating waves that felt completely impossible and unbearable. I couldn't even imagine an eventual version of myself that wasn't constantly being mercilessly thrashed around and pummeled by this. It felt like everything and it felt infinity and it felt like forever. But when I take a step back and look at how far I've come in the last year, I can appreciate the truth of these words. I still have days where I have to work hard to believe them, and the occasional day where I give up believing them completely. And therein lies the challenge.
So, remember:
The wave is not the sea:
This horrible, impossible thing you are doing or feeling is not everything and it's not forever.
(Even though it absolutely feels like it. That's okay. You can't see past it when you're in it).
The wave is not the sea:
What you're experiencing now is a part of a greater whole; a chapter, not the book.
The wave is not the sea:
There is so much more. There is hope.
The wave is not the sea:
Hold on. Give it time. Don't give up.
For me, it still comes in waves, but it looks very different now than it did a year ago. While all of the pain, anger, grief, etc. persist to varying degrees, and while waves still knock me down from time to time, now I can see the horizon. Now I know I can do this rather than just hope I can. And now I'm learning to skillfully swim at depths that I never thought possible.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
On August 24th, exactly one year since learning that my worst nightmare had become a reality, and on the day that my divorce was final, my sister and I got these words tattooed. In honor of their truth and of the fight to believe them. In honor of the breaking and the healing. In honor of the wave and of the sea and of each other. In honor of surviving. In honor of hope.
the wave is not the sea
Sunday, September 10, 2017
#IWasMadeFor
World Suicide Prevention Day has always been a big deal to me for a lot of reasons. The topic of suicide has always been so heavy on my heart because I know what it's like for suicide to make sense. I know what it's like to feel so depressed and depleted and broken that I'd do anything to escape it. To feel so much pain that I would be willing to do whatever it takes to make it stop. I know what it feels like to not want to exist anymore, and to honestly believe that death is the better option.
But I also know what hope feels like.
According to the World Health Organization, 800,000 people die by suicide each year. 800,000 people who believe varying versions of the same lie that says hope does not exist. This statistic breaks my heart, because everyone deserves to believe that hope is real and to know what it feels like. Everyone deserves to be and feel seen, loved, enjoyed, celebrated. We all deserve the space to break and also the courage to believe in the good things coming.
Every year, To Write Love On Her Arms sponsors a World Suicide Prevention Day campaign. The title of this year's campaign is "Stay: Find What You Were Made For." Deciding to stay this past year has taught me so much about who I am and what I was made for.
This year has taught me that I am vast. I feel a lot and I feel things deeply. I've learned to claim this as a strength rather than write it off as a character flaw. This year has also taught me that I am brave and I can do hard things. That loyalty is one of my highest values. That I love big and I love fiercely. This year has taught me that my intuition is solid gold and to always trust my gut. I have learned to believe that I am not ruined and that I deserve good things. I've learned how to hope even when it feels impossible and doesn't make sense.
This year has taught me that I was made for love
& stories
& laughing
& sunshine
& light
& hope.
I was made to be a daughter, sister, aunt, friend, nurse and whatever else I decide to be next.
Being a person is hard, and we're all fighting big battles. So let's love each other well and leave each other better; take care of each other and be a little kinder than necessary. Stay. Fight. Be. Become. Break and then be stronger for it and then turn around and help the person behind you. Find what you were made for, then do and be what you were made for.
You never know who you're inspiring to do the same.
But I also know what hope feels like.
According to the World Health Organization, 800,000 people die by suicide each year. 800,000 people who believe varying versions of the same lie that says hope does not exist. This statistic breaks my heart, because everyone deserves to believe that hope is real and to know what it feels like. Everyone deserves to be and feel seen, loved, enjoyed, celebrated. We all deserve the space to break and also the courage to believe in the good things coming.
Every year, To Write Love On Her Arms sponsors a World Suicide Prevention Day campaign. The title of this year's campaign is "Stay: Find What You Were Made For." Deciding to stay this past year has taught me so much about who I am and what I was made for.
This year has taught me that I am vast. I feel a lot and I feel things deeply. I've learned to claim this as a strength rather than write it off as a character flaw. This year has also taught me that I am brave and I can do hard things. That loyalty is one of my highest values. That I love big and I love fiercely. This year has taught me that my intuition is solid gold and to always trust my gut. I have learned to believe that I am not ruined and that I deserve good things. I've learned how to hope even when it feels impossible and doesn't make sense.
This year has taught me that I was made for love
& stories
& laughing
& sunshine
& light
& hope.
I was made to be a daughter, sister, aunt, friend, nurse and whatever else I decide to be next.
Being a person is hard, and we're all fighting big battles. So let's love each other well and leave each other better; take care of each other and be a little kinder than necessary. Stay. Fight. Be. Become. Break and then be stronger for it and then turn around and help the person behind you. Find what you were made for, then do and be what you were made for.
You never know who you're inspiring to do the same.
Monday, September 4, 2017
Sand & Salt Water
"The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears, or the sea." - Isak Dinesen
There's something about the ocean. The vastness of it, maybe, or the wildness. Something about being near the ocean allows me to experience God in ways that I don't anywhere else. A year ago this week, I took a trip to Cancún with two of my very best friends. It was there that I wrote the following:
I am reminded this morning, as I stand in the ocean and feel its power and listen to its roar, that God is bigger than my pain. I am also reminded of the beautiful truth that He knows the depth and magnitude of my pain, and that He is feeling it with me. While knowing this does not lessen the sting, it helps put my aching, restless heart at peace.
I am reminded that He delights in me. That He knows every inch of my wild and desperate heart and He delights in me, in all the ways I've always longed to be delighted in. He knows me in all the ways I've always longed to be known. For Him, I am enough.
I am also reminded that He doesn't need my words. He sees and knows my every thought, every feeling, every fear, every wish, every hope. For now, perhaps, it is enough to simply be broken in His presence and to know that I am understood. (09.09.2016)
Like I said, there's something about the ocean.
I've known for a couple of months now that I wanted to go back to the ocean after the divorce was final. To be away, to clear my head, to say goodbye.
There are so many rituals associated with marriage: the wedding ceremonies with the rings and the vows and the unity ceremonies and what have you. There are no rituals when you get divorced. It's just over. For all of the rituals that marked the beginning of my marriage, there are none to acknowledge the end of it, to represent the breaking and the undoing. There are no separation ceremonies. It's a death without a funeral. This has been a difficult thing for me to process, wanting and needing closure and having to stumble around in the dark to find it all by myself. It has made grieving all the more difficult.
Unity ceremonies are common wedding rituals. A physical representation and reminder of two becoming one. At my wedding, we poured sand.
Three days ago I poured that sand into the ocean.
I fought hard for a long time in hopes of salvaging what was left of my marriage. Once it became clear to me that I was the only one fighting a losing battle, I had to start fighting to let go. I still am. Standing in the ocean that morning as the sun came up was a big step forward in that fight. It didn't occur to me until afterward that pouring my unity sand was just like spreading ashes. For me it was an acknowledgement, both of my marriage and of the death of it. A way to honor my breaking and the end of something that was so sacred to me. It was a release, a farewell. This was my letting go.
I'm beginning to notice a shift. It feels a little like transitioning from moving through to moving away from. I still have a long way to go, but it finally feels like forward motion. It finally feels like healing.
And I know I'm gonna be okay.
There's something about the ocean. The vastness of it, maybe, or the wildness. Something about being near the ocean allows me to experience God in ways that I don't anywhere else. A year ago this week, I took a trip to Cancún with two of my very best friends. It was there that I wrote the following:
I am reminded this morning, as I stand in the ocean and feel its power and listen to its roar, that God is bigger than my pain. I am also reminded of the beautiful truth that He knows the depth and magnitude of my pain, and that He is feeling it with me. While knowing this does not lessen the sting, it helps put my aching, restless heart at peace.
I am reminded that He delights in me. That He knows every inch of my wild and desperate heart and He delights in me, in all the ways I've always longed to be delighted in. He knows me in all the ways I've always longed to be known. For Him, I am enough.
I am also reminded that He doesn't need my words. He sees and knows my every thought, every feeling, every fear, every wish, every hope. For now, perhaps, it is enough to simply be broken in His presence and to know that I am understood. (09.09.2016)
Like I said, there's something about the ocean.
I've known for a couple of months now that I wanted to go back to the ocean after the divorce was final. To be away, to clear my head, to say goodbye.
There are so many rituals associated with marriage: the wedding ceremonies with the rings and the vows and the unity ceremonies and what have you. There are no rituals when you get divorced. It's just over. For all of the rituals that marked the beginning of my marriage, there are none to acknowledge the end of it, to represent the breaking and the undoing. There are no separation ceremonies. It's a death without a funeral. This has been a difficult thing for me to process, wanting and needing closure and having to stumble around in the dark to find it all by myself. It has made grieving all the more difficult.
Unity ceremonies are common wedding rituals. A physical representation and reminder of two becoming one. At my wedding, we poured sand.
Three days ago I poured that sand into the ocean.
I fought hard for a long time in hopes of salvaging what was left of my marriage. Once it became clear to me that I was the only one fighting a losing battle, I had to start fighting to let go. I still am. Standing in the ocean that morning as the sun came up was a big step forward in that fight. It didn't occur to me until afterward that pouring my unity sand was just like spreading ashes. For me it was an acknowledgement, both of my marriage and of the death of it. A way to honor my breaking and the end of something that was so sacred to me. It was a release, a farewell. This was my letting go.
I'm beginning to notice a shift. It feels a little like transitioning from moving through to moving away from. I still have a long way to go, but it finally feels like forward motion. It finally feels like healing.
And I know I'm gonna be okay.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)