Bottle it up

"The wound is the place where the Light enters you" — Rumi

First of all, I feel like I should apologize. To whom, and why, I'm not exactly sure. These past days have been... But I haven't. I haven't been. Does that make sense? Maybe not. Lately, it appears that saying sorry is all I do. Sorry for not posting every day. Sorry for being a human, not a machine. Sorry for my wounds, sorry for not hiding them. Sorry for being able to feel.

And I am sorry. About everything. I've spent the last years trying to deny, negate, erase. But I can't. The only way forward is to learn how to live with it. I can't say I'm there yet, but I want to be. Last week, I promised to the little girl I used to be, before everything, that I'd honor my every breath, every heartbeat, every chance. And I intend to keep that promise. It won't be easy, but I'm not one to shy away from hard work. Never been.
 

 
Today was one of those days. The pressure had been building up on me, and even though I was happy, supposed to be happy, some things are just too much to handle all at once. Time to give you some context, I think. Well, yesterday, my littlest brother (7 y/o) stayed with me. It was something we planned ahead days ago, not an impromptu sleepover. You see, we are inseparable, and have been from the moment he was born. On the day of his birth, when my mother was still in labor, I stayed outside of the clinic for almost 24 hours. It was a complicated birth, due to my mother's age and other factors, and I just couldn't move from there until I knew they were okay. That he was okay.
 

 
For the first years of his life, he was my reason to live, and I was the one who would sing to him and rock him to sleep when he was crying inconsolably and my mother wouldn't stand to be near him. We don't live together anymore and haven't done so for the past three years. It's still hard for us, especially with all the Covid situation, and he hasn't gotten used to it. Neither have I if I'm honest.

So, in the spirit of being a good big sister, today I bottled it all up. The crumbling inside, the noise in my head. The weight on my chest. I snuggled up with him first thing in the morning, had a couple of silly laughs, made him a tasty breakfast. I played with him, watched him draw, complimented the inner workings of his cute, crazy mind. Made him feel welcomed, heard, seen.

I chopped up the veggies for lunch, cooked the lentils and the rice, washed the dishes. Reminded him to brush his teeth. Asked him what he wanted to do and made it happen. Watched a movie with him. Smiled. Held the tears.

But the truth is, I couldn't breathe. Whenever he was distracted and doing his own things, all I could hear was noise. Disgusting, abhorrent, broken, lost. A litany of the wreck I am. The mistakes I've made. The pains I've felt. And I hate that I was going through this when he was here, with me. I was supposed to be all light, calmness, joy, and I tried so hard. But I couldn't breathe. Just as if my lungs were filled with smoke.

At some point during the day, while he was drawing, I laid down for a bit. He saw it and approached me, as I was there in the bed. He placed his little hand on the side of my face, and just stood there, asking no questions, looking at me with an ageless gaze, tacitly reminding me of the light I carry in my heart. Then, and only then, I could fill my lungs with clear air.

^{I'd like to thank you for reading this. I hope my words resonated with you in some way. If they did, or even if they didn't, I'd like to further connect with you, so I invite you to drop a comment and I'll answer it as soon as I can.}