Day 6 of 31 Days in July
The TBI Collection
Of Poetry from The PTSD Poetry Project
“The Imperfection of Me”
I listen to the happiness and joy of others
I listen to all the moments I do not have
I listen and wait
I listen and cry
I cry as I see no one takes notice
I cry impatiently in my imperfection
I cry and listen
I cry and wait
I wait as no one hears me
I wait imperfectly broken, imperfectly healed
I wait and cry
I wait and listen
I wait to see if anyone will come
I listen hearing nothing in the distance
I cry realizing my time has passed
July 6, 2016
Personal journal entry
There have been moments where everything was falling perfectly into place. Like this beautifully orchestrated ballet in which I could predict each step. There was joy in stepping into this movement. Then there are the other times where it is as if I’ve forgotten, or never knew the steps. The music is disjointed and I cannot figure out the dance moves. Sometimes the imperfection of these moments have been lovely as they inevitably became something of beauty.
These recent weeks I’ve fallen into the out of step place. I cannot move for fear it will be the wrong movement and ridicule will happen. Or worse the of tendering all I have to offer only to be rejected. I have become an obstinate child who keeps crying and won’t move out of place. I’d tried! I failed! What’s the point of even trying now? So I sit in place. I listen while I wait for the moments to move on. I cry my heart out during the endless waiting until my stomach is raw from the need to vomit constantly..
It’s a terrible place to be, this out of step place. Any movement ends up being the wrong move and I want to give up. After a very long period of everything flowing so easily to me I should have prepared for it. This inevitable place of out of step. Yet I was riding on the crest of the wave enjoying the view. While at the same time I choose to forget about the coming crash of the wave.
The time of destruction. This is what I know this to be. My world upends as everything I’d worked hard to hang on to slips out of my hands as I helplessly try to hang on to the threads. These times had come before and I’d always prepared for them. I would know the timeline of when these would happen. Yet this time had been different. It had lasted much longer, a full year. It has been a year of incredible growth of healing and feeling like I was exactly where I was meant to be.
I’d flown so close to the sun, felt it’s warmth but this time I touched the sun and burned. Scorched I fell, I fell fluttering frantically to hang onto who I’d been. I fell in one long slow fight to stay in the air and now I’m on the ground. Is this where I am meant to be? Wasn’t it wonderful to be in the sky flying so high in joy? The slow movement of my wings brought me close and closer to the warmth of the sun. I would turn and dive downwards only to glide far away merely enjoying the view. It has been an incredible gift this time of joy. Beautiful moments I wish I could hold onto.
Therein is the trouble. Those moments have slipped away and this time I fear they will never come back. See there is a lot of hard work to keep the moments fresh. Give one hundred percent in everything. No matter the activity it was all there was. I understood this, it’s part of my personal brand of brain injury. All there is? Is this moment. I can plan ahead, I can take the time to write things down, put appointments, activities in my planner. I can do all this, I do it well.
Yet it’s become this mask I wore of complete and utter ‘togetherness’. The mask has slipped and I can’t hold it in place. I’m forgetting all that I had wanted to hold onto. All I wanted to never let go. There are far too many moments I wished I had given even more to. To tell more people I loved them, wanted and needed them in my life. The difference with me is I knew I had a good thing, I didn’t have to lose it to know what it was. There was always going to be the coming moments where it was simply gone.
The mask I wore, it seems, was one of perfection to the world. But I am imperfect. I was always going to be imperfect with my fine line cracks. I’ve peeled back all the layers to the imperfect me. I love this woman at the core of who I am. She is never going to change. This incredible warrior who fights hard to keep alive. She will always be standing at the cliff multiple long braids to her waist filled with beads and shells softly chiming in the wind. Her weapon at her back. The sunlight reflects off the shine of scars as she stands in the sun. She is silent, this warrior woman who is always the watcher of all that I am and continue to be.
At the core this woman is who I am. She is not to be underestimated in her fierce ability to fight and she will not stand down until it is completely over.