My mind is twisted in on itself. Pretzeled with worry.
I feel I have become frivolous. My problems, my fears, for so long a great heaviness on my sensitive heart, cheapened by the agonies of my countrymen. From every angle, I feel only hurt.
This is a thing I do to myself. Disallow my suffering in the face of others’. Shame myself for the privileged hurts I am fortunate to carry. I should be in the street, shouldn’t I? Like the others? Hair capped in pink. Holding hands with the warrior women. Defiance scrawled in bright red lipstick across my face.
I am prone to panic in crowds. True panic. Clinical. Full episode. Heart fast. Breath short. I race to quiet corners to regain myself before my legs give out. I could take the Ativan and hope for the best, but cowardice runs strong through these veins. I will own that.
I could call senators and throw money at those ready to take up the legal fight, all the while denying the wounds etched clean through my hidden self. Tell myself that my hurts don’t matter. Not in the face of all of this. That I’m unimportant.
Better the or.
I could acknowledge that the fight in the streets, the fight that was shouted from the voter’s booths, is the same ancient fight that has dwelled so long in my heart. The fight to be heard. The need, deep and all encompassing, to be validated. To be acknowledged as worthy. I’m here! Don’t you see me? See me! Don’t we all hold this wound?
I can start from this place. Let you know that I see you. I see you. Your hurt. Remind you that that pain, that hard feeling, is valid. Remind myself that your truth, even if it conflicts with mine, is no less true, is always worth hearing. So talk with me. Let us learn from each other. This difficult thing. This intricately braided thing it is to be woman, man, American. Human.
This braided scarf was made with the Crochet a la Brioche scarf pattern from Alla Koval of My Little CityGirl. Find more of her beautiful work at her website: http://mylittlecitygirl.com/.