Heirloom Pain: Seeking Who to Blame
Life is a gamble; people live with the outcomes of their choices, but what if those choices weren’t ours to begin with? Why must we bear the weight of others’ decisions, suffering the consequences even when all we did was cry for something as simple as milk?
Rotting in bed, seeing the clothes that once fitted me, and making use of my cabinets as a makeshift defense when I can hear the sky roaring once again in the house.
Once everything is quiet, I’d create a conflict that can shake anyone’s earth, looking forward to the words they’ll say to me, whether it would make me open my mouth for air or close my eyes, thinking when I’d be out of air.
The perpetual intact of not obtaining the state of grace, remaining unfixable within the ruthless game of life.
Soon, I might come to believe that the rules are designed to keep me from ever attaining that elusive peace, with each layer of cement hardening as a reminder of the grace that stands forever out of reach, never softening, and continually making me bleed.
‘I love you,’ is the first thing I send to someone who I trust to know that it’s not their fault if I’m not fine and can’t find my saving grace. As I tally the times I’ve reached out and come up empty, I’m left wondering if perhaps I’m just not meant for anything greater — if God never intended me to be Helen of Troy.
Never knowing how to cook or use a hammer, I take uncertain steps to prove something or just to be seen, fighting a worthwhile battle even though fate has eluded me for less than two decades.
Afraid of stumbling, I keep moving, hoping the pain will lessen with repetition. Maybe they’ll see that mistakes can be a source of growth, even if they hurt — that they’ve raised a masochist. Perhaps I’m not as blind as they are, or maybe this is my way of finding someone else to blame as they leave, leaving me as a patchwork of their failures.
When I fall in love, I’ll feel a deep sorrow for him, knowing I am my own Achilles’ heel, many men have tried to stop the inevitable explosion from a cannonball and the skies never opened their gates for me, even if I went there unarmored, releasing the toll of everyone’s temper, mistakes, and ghosts to be a saint.
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