When I first walked into the room of couches and had a IV of compassion stuck inside my veins, they told me my eyes were broken. Distorted, sick, not right, they are a disillusioned gateway into the physical world. I said they aren’t because how could they be? I saw color and shape and depth and beauty all around, it was not what I look at from afar that was wrong. It was not my friends or my family or the strangers on the street that I pointed at and scream, but me, the face reflected back at me in the mirror, the one with the hollowed out, empty eyes and swollen cheeks, the one who seems to blow up the longer I stare until she was filling the entire bathroom. A massive form growing and growing, forever growing because she had to in order to contain all of the pint up anger and sadness, grief and heartbreak. They told me my eyes were broken, so I turned off all the lights to keep myself from catching a glimpse at that hollow child ever again.
The cycle of couches became routine. Kleenex and ensures, exchanges and process. They told me I was getting stronger and I could turn the light switch back on. But, when I tried no light filled the space because the electricity had been cut. The fuse was left unfed for too long. It was severed. No longer responsive to my finger’s touch. They told me my fingers were broken. I refused to believe them. I used to drive myself to the brink of insanity fighting with the switch. Yelling and screaming, kicking and punching because it should work god damn it! It should work! But time passed and desires shifted and I stopped wishing for the switch to turn back on and it was then that I found the real light. The one outside of my window. The ball of fire barely peaking over the horizon. The sun. It has been stuck there for a long time, failing to rise, but resting far enough so that I knew it is there and that there was a promise of light coming soon. They told me this was an awakening. I told them my fingers should work now. They told me they were still broken. To look at the sun and not the switch because my hand was not the answer. Outside of myself. Outside of my room and my switch and my mirror and my face, that is where I would find the fix. It wasn’t my eyes that were broken, but my heart. Only a whole heart could mend it, offering that piece it is able to share to patch mine enough so that it could remain beating. Outside of myself because everything inside is short fused and apparently broken.
My heart keeps growing despite the pain. I tell it to stop, but it says it is not me who gets to decide. It is the past hurts, the past memories, the past mistakes, the past highs, the past loves, that decide what size is required of the muscle. My heart is so large it was hard to house inside a hollowed body. So I had to grow. I had to eat and grow because I needed a space for that abnormally huge muscle. I didn’t want to, but I did because if I didn’t I would die. Not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I needed to grow because my spirit was very much alive.
They tell me my story will heal me. I tell them that is not the case. They assure me it is part of the journey. I tell them I would rather look the other way. They tell me that I have already turned the lights off. For once they are right. The only light left was the one on the horizon, the hope and peace, the one that is inextinguishable because it is out of my reach. That light is never ceasing and that terrifies me. That light shines through to my heart. That light is what is feeding the muscle and therefore has become the reason for its eternal growth. My broken fingers can’t touch the light and kill it. My broken eyes can’t falsely know it because it is far outside of me. Far enough that it is real.