I turned off the lights, I turned off the radio, and I left the car to hum it's grumpy hum. I sat there in silence, wringing the steering wheel with sweaty hands. I was parked on the side of the curb in a dark, unfamiliar neighborhood.
I couldn't move. I was unable to move.
I had reached unexpected stasis.
The sensation I felt is best described like this: It was as if I was suddenly sandwiched between a wall composed of my Reality and a wall composed of my Perception of Reality. It was as if for some unknown quantity of time, these two Walls were rocketing toward one another at an alarming rate, and last night was the night they were to collide and annihilate one another. I just happened to be the buffer that stopped them from colliding. New Year's Eve, in my salt-encrusted Honda, I found myself forcefully squished between that which is Real, and that Lens from which I view the Real.
And I finally realized... I am in pain.
I know there are people who have had it worse than me, but it doesn't change the fact that the roads I have traveled have been shadowy and frightening. It doesn't change the fact that my skin is still raw, pink and shiny from the fires I've waded through. It doesn't change the fact that when I look back, I can see my blood stain the trails I have left behind.
I can no longer dismiss the pain and suffering I've fought through to be where I am now. That would be a vicious lie. I can't just toss all of my anguish aside, and comfort myself with phrases like “Everyone goes through rough patches.” or “Jesus knows what you're going through.” or “You aren't crazy.” All the sh*t I've gone through was Real. This sh*t is Real.
I can no longer hide that fact that I'm scared. I can no longer hide my failure to be perfect. There are no more brave faces.
