A Long Awaited Storm

And maybe you don't need to see just how weak I am
How I struggle to stand
I shared that with you and yet here I stand
Falling falling falling
Without a place to land

Do you care now? Are you worried?
Have I made you understand?
That to me, in this life, you are more than just a man
A rock, a hard place, an embrace, a hand
Thoughts of being without...
I just don't know if I can.

This isn't me speaking now, this is a long awaited rain
Smoldering and building up, with the frustrations and the pain
Waiting up above the clouds, begging for a change
A drought sits down below us, begging just the same.

For when the storm at last does break, I'm afraid we won't survive.
We're tired and we tried, but we won't make it out alive.
It's exhausting but romantic, waiting side by side...
Waiting for the skies to open, waiting for the sun, but drowning in the tide...

My Heart.

My heart hurts today. It's like a burning in my chest, an empty hole. I don't what to feel. Except for pain. I know I made the right decision, but yet I cling to that hope. That hope that things will get better, go back to normal. But I know that it never will.
I know what they mean when they say the "thin line between love and hate." I'm walking it. I love him with all of my heart, and yet I hate him for what he's done to me. How do you walk away when your heart is so firmly planted? It doesn't want to let go, or even recognize that this must end. It wants him to try, get on bended knee and beg. But even if he does, will I ever recover? I never did from the past. I thought I would. And yet years later the images still haunt my mind. Is there such thing as self induced amnesia? Let me forget him, what he's done and most of all what he means to me. I fear that will be the only way I will get through this.

The Truth

Ever since I was a little kid, I wanted to be liked. I wanted to be popular, and friends with everyone. As I grew up, my goals changed, but still centered around my many friendships. I wasn't popular by any means, but I was, and still am, one of those people who gets along with everyone. It slowly started to dawn on me, that, while I had many acquaintances, I had very few "friends." As I continue to grow, I've kept the people-pleasing mindset, and I daresay it has crept into my writing. It is very similar to the career of an athlete. A small child plays one sport for his or her whole life. Gets recruited straight from college to the pros. But then, the game changes. He or she is no longer playing for love of the sport, but for the money, the fame, the haphazard lifestyle, etc. The original passion has been replaced by something external.
In my case, my writing had turned from writing things I wanted to say, to attempting to write the things people wanted to read. My stories are seen as excessive, my poetry seems juvenile. When the hell did I begin to judge my passions so harshly? I even look at the songs I wrote, the words that I wanted to say, as sad, or depressing. When did I begin to let the criticisms of other people change the way I act?
It begins in high school, maybe even a little earlier. Your skirt is too long, your hair is too stringy. You don't wear enough makeup, or you wear too much. At the risk of sounding like a feminist, young girls have it the worst in this department. You're too fat to wear those jeans, you're too skinny for that top. It seems near impossible to find the middle ground, where you can just be you and no one has anything to say about it. So it begins at a young age, men and women alike, that we begin to understand and accept that people will always talk. You could ignore it, confront it, or do it back. Either way, the talk will continue till you run out of time to listen to everything that is being said. So what do you do? Should you conform to their whispers and change yourself according to their complaints? After all, they can't complain if you fix the problem right? But if you do fix these things, all you're doing is confirming that whatever they say is wrong with you must be true, it confirms that you're listening. And slowly but surely, their criticisms decide who you are, how you act, what you say, how you dress, etc... Before you know it, you don't know who you are anymore.
It doesn't always have to happen like that, some people hear the criticisms and rebel from them just in spite of the said criticizers. It's a wonderful thing to witness, their jaw drops just a little more. But then you unfortunately come to the realization that whether or not you are obeying or rebelling against their observations, either way you are allowing them to dictate your actions. Again, we come to the question, what do you do?
In no way, shape, or form am I admitting that a person should take into account what people, whom they barely know, if at all, has to say about them. However, I am suggesting that these sometimes harsh words can be a good thing. How do you know the impression you give off to other people? How are you supposed to know the way in which you come off to people? Granted that one single, solitary meeting should not be the decider of a person's entire persona. That should be your duty to decide how credible a person's opinion of you is.
It's an unfortunate reality that regardless of what we do, how we respond to these people, that the talk will continue. I hate to say that I've accepted it and moved on, but I have. In light of a solution I have none. But just know that there are some things about yourself that you should keep, regardless of what other people say. 

Act II: Fishing.

Act II, Part 1

 The entire hospital is talking about me. I did it. I spoke, well rather, I sang. My words have been few and far between since, but I feel as though this is a milestone I have overcome. My voice was the same. Raspy and squeaky from the lack of use, but it was there. Just as pretty as it once was. I cannot contain my joy, and neither can my family. I have finally given them the joy they've been asking for, I have finally repaid them for their loyalty and faith in me these past months. Despite receiving my desired results, giving my loved ones the happiness they deserve was all the conformation I needed.
 It all started with my fishing trip with Alex. We walked down a long shaky pier, and part of me knew I'd been here before, even without Alex telling me so. This was our spot, my father's and mine. I liked the luck we had here, so we never ventured anywhere else. The view was lovely, snaking vines across the wooden railings, delicate purple flowers spawning on every bank. This was a place of peace. A place where I felt at home, strangely enough, since I know not what home is anymore.
 Alex helped my string the pole, it was smaller, but sturdy enough. I took care to watch how he tied on the hook, set the bait; I wanted to be included in this activity again. At this point, anything to get me out of that hospital was heavenly. He set up his own pole and casted with such ease it left me momentarily stunned. Then my mind would no longer allow my eyes to see the current goings on, for it had another picture for me to see. I was, in the same spot as Alex, with the same pole, casting with the exact same ease. And my father... my Dad. He was there, laughing at my goofy left-handedness. Present time images came back quickly, almost like a slap in the face. Alex questioned my condition, but I just waved him off, trying to smile and seem unaffected.
I then looked down at the fishing pole between my feet. Could this be my escape? Could this be my channel back to my past? I picked the rod up gingerly, flipped the metal half-circle, the bail, held the line with my pointer finger and leaned the pole backwards over my right shoulder. Images struck me like a bolt of lightening. I dropped the pole and stood up abruptly, a look of sheer terror across my face. I took a step back, ignoring the creaking of the rickety railing I was leaning up against. The railing promptly broke, sending me careening backwards into the cold creek water. I sank to the depths quickly, not remembering how to swim. I was not panicked, the images, my memories, they comforted me. They were coming back to me. I know Matthew. I know him. I know my Mom, I remember her. These people, they loved me. They still love me. Dear diary, I cannot put into words all the things I saw, but they were glorious. I was... I was me again. In the happiest, most contented way... in my life, I wanted for nothing.
 A burning in my lungs awoke me from my pleasant, new found memories. I pushed off the muddy brown bottom, and kicked my feet while reaching desperately for the surface. I hit the top of the water with a resounding gasp, begging for air to fill my lungs. Alex stood upon the dock, half undressed, fumbling with his button down shirt. As soon as he saw me he exclaimed: "Oh thank god! I was seriously considering ruining a good shirt. Not to mention, Mom would kill me if you almost died, well, again." I smiled and reached for his outstretched hand. He pulled me to the dock and began to pack up. I hastily put my hand on his arm and shook my head "no." Alex smiled, and said a simple statement that summed up everything I've been hoping to prove to myself, and my loved ones: "So there is a shred of the old you in there somewhere." I grinned, pushing back tears that I needed to desperately to let out. "I'll call Matthew to bring you some dry clothes, and we'll make a night out of it."
Matthew. Just the mention of his name, now knowing who he was to me before, sent chills from my neck to my knees. I shook my head enthusiastically, and nestled back into my chair. This is what I have been waiting for, there was no way I was going to let this night end early.
 I arrived back to the hospital, against Doctor's orders, after midnight. My hair was still drenched, and I was wearing Matthew's baggy sweatpants and t-shirt. It had those strange letters on it, the one's from my dream. I wonder if he was in sorority too? I had thoroughly enjoyed this evening. Every time I picked up that fishing pole, a new face, a new name, a new memory overtook my brain.
 I had so many questions that needed answers. I sat on my bed gently, eyeing the array of items on my nightstand. Flowers, cards, my notepad. I picked it up, and fingered the pages, flipping between the first and last pages. So much I had learned, yet so much I still need to know. Why can't I just speak? Why can't I do it? Frustrated with myself, I walked to the window sill where I set my open notebook down. I tried to form words from the pages, that I was saying to myself. I couldn't do it. I could hear myself try to say things, deep down in my throat. But I couldn't say it out loud. Suddenly angry, I ripped the notepad to pieces, page by page, and found myself in a small pile of shredded paper, in tears. I stood up slowly and stared out at the moon, begging for any help from above. Another memory hit me then, of my father and I, as a child... brave and confident. All that came to mind was how I must get back to her, the her that was me, no matter what it took, I would find her.

 Just then, with a feeling that felt like another round of tears, I began to hum my favorite song. I opened my mouth and let the melody encircle me. I then began to speak the words out loud, slowly at first, then faster with the melody. Before I knew it, I was singing...

Living.

Part 5

I haven't written in days. I find no inspiration within these blank white walls. My daily routine runs the same- wake up from a typically horrific dream, wash, eat, walk, read, entertain my many visitors, and sleep only to wake and repeat it all.
I live for my visits with my brothers. They clue me into the life I left behind. The old me they so desperately want me to go back to. Today my oldest brother Alex is taking me fishing, the reason I'm writing. Will I pick this old habit up as easily as I did my writing? I can only hope for my family's sake that I may return to my old lifestyle and hobbies.
The more time I spend with them, the worse I feel. How can these people love me so much, when I give so little in return? I have yet to speak. I can't. It's been months and I struggle to release these words, for dreadfully I fear the outcome. How much it would please them to hear my voice. How much I'd love to give them that joy.
It is from this guilt that I have agreed to read through my old journals, and look through albums of mine. This process scares me immensely. What if I am no longer interested in the things that made me who I once was? What will they do? Will they still love me?
Oh the topic of love. Is that how I describe these feelings I have for Matthew? Comfort comes to mind. He is warm, and secure. He makes me smile, and he is so very gentle when we walk. He holds my hand. It stirs a swell of emotion within me, I feel myself missing what we had, without even knowing what it was. He tells me stories about my voice, and how when he played I would sing, lyrics, words of my own. He brought movies I used to like, we watch them together. I wonder how he will feel if I turn into something different than the woman he once loved?
My mother hasn't visited for days, my brothers explain that she needed to be away and take care of the house. I don't overlook the sadness in their voice. She isn't visiting because I'm not improving, and it makes her sad. I wish there was something I could do. Tonight, after fishing, I will write her a letter saying how sorry I am. How much I wish I could be what she wants me to be.
Alex has arrived, I can only hope this will prove to be a rewarding experience, for if I cannot provide joy to those who love me, what point is there to living?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nurse Renee
Tonight, Anna and I wondered the halls lazily as we always do. Discussing the patients, the outcomes we see for them. Coming out of room 303, was a sound we've longed to hear. Anna and I exchanged glances and silently hustled to the door side. There, by the moon lit window, we heard a tune, almost whispered from the girl who refused to speak. Standing in the glow of the evening light, Marina sang the chorus to an old favorite song, quietly, but audibly, in such a pretty key we heard:
"Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high, there's a dream that I dreamed once in a lullaby..."
This news will certainly give her family a new hope for living.

Awakening.

Part 4

I had another dream tonight. This one was far from as pleasant as the last. I was in pain and I'm not sure why or where but I could feel it deep in my bones. All I could see was a tall, dark man. He scared me. I don't know why, but I couldn't get away from him fast enough. This dream I will keep to myself. I don't want to upset anyone.

I sat in bed awake for hours before the nurse came. Every shadowed corner of my room terrified me. The dark. It was scary and I don't know why. When the nurse finally arrived with my breakfast, she noticed my disturbed state. I quickly retrieved my notepad and scribbled a pleading message to be let outside. Like a dog, I was begging to be let out. These four walls are suffocating me, and even though not knowing what my life was like before terrifies me, I'm dying to put it back together.

Walking.

Part 3

Today was a special day. For everyone else, not me. I was allowed to go outside for the first time in months. Months? Had it been that long? This bed, this gown, these white walls and tiny window has disguised the weeks I've spent here. 4 months the nurse said. One more and I can go home. Wherever that is. Everyone else is happy about it, but I can't allow myself to find joy in something I know nothing about.
My mom is walking with me today. This is supposed to be different from the other walks, the greens and reds of the outdoors is supposed to bring me back to reality. Isn't that where I am? Or is this all a dream?
I've decided to bring my notepad, it's with me most days now. It's how I communicate with the nurses, asking for more juice, a warmer blanket. I think I frustrate them with my inability, rather my refusal to speak. They know I can, but they can't figure out why I won't.
I've even been allowed to don a pair of shorts and a big t-shirt. It was a pajama set of mine, so my mom said, with little penguins swimming through the folds. My mom said I loved penguins. I guess they're cute.
We've picked a path through the garden, she said I once had a vegetable garden until the deer got to it. She showed me tomato plants, apparently I used to love them, I still do. They're my favorite.
We found a bench in a shaded corner of the garden. The sun was hot today, I'm assuming it's common for this area. The sun beats down on my tiny window warming me to wake each morning.
I took out my notepad and began to scribble my questions regarding my "sisters" from my dream. She explained slowly. "Your college years. You were in a sorority and you loved it. You still talk to some of the girls from your pledge class, 3 of them were going to be in your wedding."
My first thought was about a sorority, me? I hated girls. They were mean for the most part and I'm pretty sensitive. My second thought, more importantly, my wedding? I was getting married? I scratched my worried thoughts onto the frail white paper. My mom, I found out her name is Amy, smiled as she answered. "You think Matthew comes to visit for nothing? He loves you. Your-uh, accident tore him to pieces." Oh. The tall man. The guilt I feel weighs heavy on my shoulders. My entire circle of loved ones, whether or not I recognize them as so, had their lives on hold waiting for my recovery. My final question was something I believed I already knew the answer to. One simple word on the now filled piece of paper: Dad?
A sadness washed over her.
"He died when you were 18. You went back to school that following fall. Home was never the same for you."
Regardless of already knowing the answer, I couldn't help but feeling like I was missing something huge. Well obviously, more than one thing was missing.
We continued to walk, she filled me in on the basics of my life. I'm 26, a libra, and we live in North Carolina, by the beach. I like penguins and grilled cheese, and fishing was my favorite thing to do. I wrote to her that I could try to fit back into my old life, so my family could go back to normal. She smiled and patted my shoulder and simply said: "In due time love."

Today was a good day. The walk did me good, I think. I put the flowers we picked in a cup on my windowsill, and I find myself wandering around my room, trying to keep active. My legs ache, and my body is frail. I wonder when I will ever feel normal again. I wish I could remember everything, for this feels like such a long drawn out process. I wonder when I will feel the joy of normal activities, as opposed to just walking.