It's a cliche, but words can leave lasting scars. Scar that not even you can see. No matter how far you've come, no matter how fuzzy the memory, they are still there and sometimes they'll open up and stop your life short. They'll make it hard to breathe, like you're being held under water flailing and kicking to reach the surface. When you finally shake it off, while your breathing normalizes you shove it back down into the depths of your memory and hope that this time you've conquered it.
But you haven't.
Being railed at by him was like fire and brimstone. I was laying in my cool quiet bedroom with the phone pressed to my ear. Yet when I return to the memory in my head I see shadows and fire burning on the walls. His words were poisonous and hot. It had been six months of this. I deserved every minute of it. I hoped desperately that if he saw that I agreed with him, that he was right, then maybe his anger would abate. Everything he said was true, I was guilty. I had ruined our lives and if it made him feel better to hate me in the middle of the night, then I would endure it. It was the least I could do. All the words he threw at me were not new words. They were not revelations. They were the things I had been berating myself with everyday. I was much crueler to myself then he could ever be. So if it helped ease the pain in his heart then I would lay there and quietly agree with him. I would try not to cry where he could hear me, because I didn't deserve the relief of tears. I had done this to us. I let the words sink in to my very bones, because that's what I deserved.
It has been a long time since then. He has forgiven me and offered up apologies, which I waved away. His words are not the reason why the scars come up. If it were not for my guilt we could have moved on a long time ago. But the shame has etched those words into irrefutable scars inside me. If it were not for my guilt, they would have healed long ago. But instead its acted like a soldering iron. I imagine when I die and they open me up to donate my organs they will find fiery words etched on my fragile bones.
I hope that I can start healing the scars and maybe writing it out will help me. I don't need to forget. I am a firm believer that life is a lesson. This lesson was hard won, so it will not be forgotten. But maybe I can forgive myself and focus on the now. My scars can heal and I can fill myself up with the love in my life, instead of constantly nursing an old wound.
What can you write about to help you heal?