Personal Journal “The Interwoven Lines” 

      I listen and hear the lyrics “should I fall to pieces.” This time of year, especially as the toughest anniversary comes up, is when I most worry I will fall to pieces. There is always the inner fear I will shatter like the fragile china cup I always seem to compare myself to. All those multitudes of tiny cracks in the glaze over the porcelain. The light which shines through to show the inner glow and yet all it would take is the one drop to the floor. This cup would fly apart into pieces which could never be put back together again.      I wonder how many are out there who feel the same about certain days? In reality there are only a few whose dates I remember merely because I could not, would not forget. Most are only about the time of year and I am reminded of this when I find myself falling into a state of decompensation when this time of year approaches. Luckily, grieving has taught me, along with a lot of educational classes about mourning and grieving, this wave of falling apart becomes smaller with each passing year.

      I think twelve years makes this the smallest so far.

      The fall, or autumn, for the previous decades of my life had been always been a time of joy. The weather would become cooler so I could put on layers of soft clothing. I could begin to pile blankets on the bed and couch to sleep under. There would be beauty in the leaves, the dried grasses, the mist and the light of the day.

       Then tragedy slammed itself into my life and because of the date it occurred on I no longer saw the joy. It was only the beginning of many tragedies piled upon each other like a domino pattern which was hit and one after another tile knocked each other down. Now I worry each year as the autumn approaches that I will fall to pieces, that this would be the season I can’t cope.

        Yet all I have to do is go back through the journals, to read what I had written and see how very different it all is now. I have gotten through, I have pushed and pushed until I nearly broke. All it took was the one last tile being knocked down and I was finished. I lay there for the longest time unable to breathe from the overwhelming pressure on top of my body. I almost gave in to it. Almost.

       But I’m a stubborn person at heart. I won’t give in and I wasn’t going to let any of this keep me down in the darkness these situations created. I began to push gently, then harder and harder until all the walls broke around me.

      So the light continues to shine through the fragile china cup exposing all it’s fine lines of intersecting cracks. In the recent decade I’d become ashamed of these cracks in my veneer. Now I see them for what they are and am no longer ashamed.


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