I view my past and see how I resurrected myself many times by engendering hope into my existence. But in this space, at this train stop, heaviness is exacerbated by a dim, moist air that makes it hard to breathe. My body is tired and my mind dry. The energy to resurrect myself once again, just isn’t here. Despair seems to be the final destination.
I have no hope, yet it is my middle name. I can’t take the risk of jumping on another potentially sabotaged train. My doubts and beliefs, or disbeliefs, would go with me and the destination would look the same. Rides on toxic love trains are what dump me here repeatedly. I should have jumped off this last one sooner and avoided another heart wrenching disappointment.
Did I determine this destination, or was it determined for me?
Have I been riding along on a pre-destined journey, or did the accumulation of pain become all I know, determining the destination from all of my destitute imaginings? I’ve become the person who expects to get hurt in the next step, to be demolished if I take a risk and betrayed by the next person, just like the last.
I am Rebecca and I am alone. My kids are almost grown and have their lives to live. I am unhappy at work and I haven’t had a true partner for nearly 2 decades. But, I do have a story. This story I must tell. Insights on the only true existence, spiritual existence, the deep understanding of Self and the price I’ve had to pay for these, I must blossom from my soul.
I should explain that I’m probably what you imagine an average 41 year old white woman with dyed-blond hair looks like. I’m average in weight and height, once at 5’5” and possibly now getting shorter, weighing around 125 as I have most of my life. If I put on weight, which is hopefully not, but sometimes is, over 10 pounds, it goes straight to my hips, my child-bearing hips. (Apparently, some men are really drawn to this.) If I were to eat a donut right now, I’d see it on my ass in the morning. But, I can still pull off sexy in tight jeans. I’m happy for that. Flat-ironed-straight past my shoulders, my hair is absent of any flow. It’s the hospital blinds dropped for the night, purposeful but looking like all the others. Men have told me that they are drawn to my smile, my bigger-than-life, thin-lipped, toothy smile. If you ask me, it’s a horse smile. Thankfully, I adore horses.
If I could be drawn to anything about myself, other than my deeply spiritual nature, it would be my eyes. I’m happy to have inherited my grandpa’s piercing blue eyes. If eyes are the gateway to the soul, my soul is the nighttime cerulean ocean, still, intense and waiting to penetrate all that comes within reach. This is the real me, that which either intrigues or frightens people. Nevertheless, it’s bound to be unleashed.
Today I begin. I must awaken from this damaging consciousness. Today, a new story begins as I write myself out of this filthy graffiti-hole. An inner wealth of happiness must be possible, as the spirits have shown me so. I hope for a triumph at the end. This story is destined to end in glory, as love is the destination of all. But today I am only a defeated shell of existence. The yolk was removed long ago.