Name Them One by One

Count your blessings.

The litany starts in my head. I’m angry with you. You’ve hurt my feelings. I don’t feel good enough. I think I’m a failure. Why can’t you just do this? Why can’t you just be there? Why is it always so hard? I wish you would do it this way. I wish you would say that. I wish that it could just be easy. And once it starts, it just keeps going, spiraling deeper and deeper. Then the tears come, gasping, shaking, wrenching.

It’s a cycle that has to stop. Slowly but surely I am pulling myself apart from the inside out. The grip I have on functionality and sanity slide a little more every day. Some days, like today, I’m not even very good at pretending. Other days I don’t think anyone would ever hazard a guess.

Close your eyes and imagine a candle, watch the flickering flame and the wax dripping down. All I see is a knife’s edge with blood slowly dripping off. What is wrong with me? The weight in the center of my chest sometimes feels too heavy to bear. Sometimes, in the darkest moment I can feel the cold, heaviness in my hands. And then I run to the only place that I am safe. He wraps his arms around me and tells me there’s nothing to cry about, he’s just hugging me. I tell him that it’s the only place where I feel safe enough to cry right now. He takes me to bed and holds me, grounds me, saves me once again.

I have to reclaim my own head as my safe place. I need to find the lost peace in my soul. And the only game I know to play is to stop the litany before it starts. If the litany doesn’t start than the tears can be held at bay. I used to struggle with living in my own head. I was always cooler in my head than in reality. I had more friends, more money, a better job. I broke free of it in college, but now I find it creeping back. Only, now I am alone in this desolate space. But I will not let it trap me again. I have the weapon of truth in my hands and I will wield it as best I can.

Count your blessings, name them one by one.

~The Countess~


About texancountess

I find myself in the calming roar of the sea, floating gently on the foam of the breaking waves. Blue. Green. Gray. The colors of the sea mark the boundaries of my soul. The tumbled glass finds its polish under the relentless pounding of the waves upon the shore. Thus am I. Rough transitioning to polish, refinement ever a process, finding my niche in the storms of life.
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