What Can Cure the Blackest Soul?

Just when I thought that I felt as miserable as I could feel, yesterday came and made me feel a million times worse. I crumbled to pieces as I sat there and listened to misrepresentation galore and a collection of preposterous self-made theories being passed off as truths poured out like Kool-Aid into a child’s glass on a hot summer day. To add insult to injury, past behaviors that I had tried so very hard to correct and hadn’t experienced in many months, some even years (years meaning prior to my 2006 diagnosis of bipolar) since they had happened, were mentioned and thrown around as if they had happened yesterday or last week.
Every interjection I tried to make was either silenced by the third party or was unable to be heard through the waterfall of tears that kept flowing. I had tried, I really had. I had told myself that I wouldn’t cry. Heck, for the last week and a half I had been completely numb to all feelings and couldn’t even cry during the funeral scene in Backdraft!!!! (yes, it gets me everytime…..except the last 10 days) So, the waterfall coming out of my eyes was not only a shock to me, but quite unwanted and at the worst time possible!!!!
AND it didn’t stop; the tears OR the words flying around with pure criticism, making every thing that is important to me seem like I’m involved in some “David Karesh”-type cult! There I was, torn to shreds. I felt a little bit like Cinderella when she was all ready to go to the ball in the dress the mice made for her, but then when the step-sisters realized that it was made with all of their discarded items, they ripped them all off and left her standing there in shreds!!! That’s kind of how my insides felt, and by then, there was nothing I could do to change anything that happened, to clarify anything that was said. There was only one version heard that day and what was supposed to have been impartial and helpful and to hear both sides out, it was an ambush. I was fully stocked and loaded with current events, and issues. Instead, I was thrown 6 years of hoarded ammunition that was falsely advertised as current events. 
But, tears streaming down my face still, I slowly made the trek back to my office, where I collapsed into my chair and just sobbed. Why? I sobbed because I have always given every single ounce of myself to the things that I love. I have dropped everything everytime the phone rings, I have tried to do everything that is asked of me, and then some, to get everything the way it’s requested, while trying to work full time, and still find some time for my own health and for an activity that I enjoy (per my doctors instructions).  Yet its’s always my health and activities that suffer; either because I don’t have the time or because they are made fun of or frowned upon.
Yet, as the words were being spouted off earlier, they all led to one conclusion: that I did NOTHING to help with anything and no intention of further helping.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I felt like the last 8 years of my life were just completely ripped out from inside me.
If I hadn’t been helping, then what HAD I been doing? I certainly didn’t have this big empire that I had created with all that “extra time” while he was away, or tons and tons of vacations like some of my other friends. Wait, WHAT “EXTRA TIME?” Everyone that knew me and him and our situation KNEW that there was NO EXTRA TIME for me.
So I sobbed because that meant that nothing I had done was worth anything and if so, then I want those years back!!! ALL OF THEM!!!
I sobbed because things I had worked hard to accomplish were viewed as completely unhealthy, but I did them because they were important and I was asked, and I did them out of love. So I cried til it was time to go home, because I didn’t know what else to do. What do you do when everything you HAD been doing was like a piece of paper gone through the shredder.

You try to find one little piece of that paper that bounced out of the garbage can. That little shred that was left behind.

My own family and friends, and of course, my Bipolar Hot Mess Family.

If there is one thing that can turn all of that hurt and put together all of those shreds of my soul, it is

  • receiving an email or a comment
    • thanking me for writing what I did, or playing the song that I did;
    • thanking me for giving them a new perspective on things;
    • thanking me for sharing my story and giving them hope; or
    • thanking me for just being me.


That is where a whole world of black can instantly turn brighter for me. Knowing that even though some don’t understand or think what I do is anything good at all, there is a whole bunch of people out there that would disagree. I remember being in the place that most of those people are/were in and I wished and hoped that someone would or could relate to me, or that someone would reach out to me; or that someone would just offer me a hug. A hug would have made a world of difference to me in those situations. But, I didn’t have that. So, now I write so that those that don’t have that hug can at least have SOMETHING.

For me, knowing that I helped someone or have affected or impacted their life is like them giving a hug to me. People may not understand it. People may look down on me for it. People may complain about it. But for all those negatives, there are also those people who are proud of me for it, who are thankful for it, and who are excited for me for it.

I believe in love. I believe in love at first sight. I believe in unicorns. I believe in castles. I believe in knights in shining armor. I believe in fairy tales. Because I believe in all those things, I continue to write because writing sews back up the tattered shreds, that others won’t or can’t, into the beautiful ballgown for my fairytale ending.

That is what cures the blackest soul.

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