Mourning in the morning

For 3 weeks, I’ve been in the grips of unimaginable pain. The kind that tears a hole in my soul and sends its tentacles of terror into every iota of my being. It feels like climbing a mountain made of quicksand with concrete blocks for shoes and a heavy backpack. It feels like having a tornado set loose in my mind but my feet are too hesitant, my eyes too tired, my heart too heavy to run away, and so I have to keep very still whilst the tornado passes through me, because I don’t want people to see me in pain.
It’s ironic that the more pain I am in, the harder I try to appear painless.

Anxiety alternates between moments of ebb and tides; it subsides when I come upon a new chapter in discovering life, and once I’ve amassed enough experiences and life lessons, the old and the new in me battle it out until I shed my old soul. It’s a period of letting go of old mindsets, attachments, false beliefs, and it’s the most difficult and painful process of enlightenment. And worst thing is it happens a few times every year.
The process of letting seems to be outside the realm of space-time continuum; it’s almost like being in a grave, in the Barzakh, where it’s dark and you can’t do anything but wait, but for how long? It’s very dark, and all the positivity and inspiration that you thought you knew before then, is no longer. You feel stuck and that this dark patch is going to stretch over a lifetime. You don’t know what to do, and you want to reach out to people but what do you say? How do you explain it to them? And what can they do? And so you keep mum about it because it’s less painful if you don’t try.

This phase included me writing a lot. Like a couple of thousand words a day. I needed to drop the heavy weight of words in my mind. I’m an intensely reticent person, and that means that I carry around stories. Stories that have wings and need to be let out. Untold stories can be the heaviest coffin to bear.

I’m ready to bury my pain.

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