Karl Marx wrote about the past lying heavy like a nightmare on the minds of the living; more and more I have felt like this one sentence was written looking directly at me.
The past has been the present; the emotions raw, the wounds re-opened and the pain as if it had never gone. Things I never thought I would think or feel again have forced themselves into the forefront of my consciousness, the landscape of my mind dominated by what once was, not what is. I am not lost, it is all to familiar ground, I thought I would never see again, I don’t want to see, I never want to see again, I never want to think about again, I never want to feel again. I would give up feeling not to feel those things again; all the same, here they are, violently intruding, destroying me from the inside all over again.
I could never escape, death would never open it’s arms, like everyone, the warm embrace of finality rejected me; like teachers, like parents, it was cold, it heard my pleas, my longing for the pain to end, and walked away. Leaving me with the frozen wasteland of broken thoughts, at the mercy of those that would hurt me, defenceless and without shelter smashed again and again, again and again against the rocks of the abuse, violence, and dismissal that led me to seek heaven’s promised warm embrace. Death, God, and Life, you left me there to break, and break, smash and shatter, until the pieces had failed both at death and life could do nothing but acquiesce to existence smashing against the rocks longing only for those times when the waves would lap gently.
And, no one invited you back, you were banished, every last one of you; God and Death impostors alike you were cast out; those who abuse left in their coven of wickedness to cast whatever spell they chose over the broken remains my life left behind, the mythology called reputation still on those rocks broken and shattered; but the man, he moved away. That life, everything in it destroyed; nothing to do but move away, a new place, a new face, a new life, quietly, don’t be spotted, don’t be successful; don’t bring the wrath forth to your new place. I knew, play broken, quietly without fanfare; build only character and trust that time does not heal wounds; the fire that burns us, is also where healing has to happen. Without time the wound stays open … but with only time it becomes infected, the infection spreads and kills us.
Healing is active, I knew that, I knew I had to hide and heal, wait and become someone else to that broken man broken on the rocks longing for death’s warm embrace. So why are those wounds opening up, why are those thoughts back, we did the work; I endured the pain of recovery, I backed down from no work or challenge; I overcame, I did, I became, I grew, I did the things that needed to be done not that I wanted to do, and I longed only for peace.
I am betrayed, betrayed by my own mind, my nightmare weighs me down.