I still brace myself for the blow. Unseen scares remind me of all the places I’ve been, telling me when I had gotten too close to the flame once again, but whether I closed my eyes and deflect my pain, or I choose to look deeper to find what is eroding some piece of my soul, depends largely on where I am in my journey.

I can understand why I couldn’t look too close at many of my truths in my younger years. I still wince when trying to look at some of them now. Some of them are a lot like tearing open my heart to take a peek. Yet, I have learned the hard way not to leave them buried. Buried wounds only fester. Fstering wounds have a way of rising to the surface at the most inopportune times. Namely, when you’re right in the middle of some new pain that just  proved you had not laid that last one to rest after all.

Some of my wounds took too many years to close. The frustrating part is when I come to realize that I am still harboring some deep seated rage over something I’d thought I”d put to bed long ago.

I reflect upon one of the deepest of these of late. I would have destroyed the man who had the bad luck to place himself in the middle of one of the ugliest of these wounds to my soul. My world had turned techno-colored. I would have never dreamed the expression could have any association with the rich vibrant colors I had found in the wild flowers, the rich, green grass, or the myriads of leaves hanging from giant hard-wood trees. But, for me, the world has lost its vivid brightness, had faded so as to almost seem black-and-white, but with a mere hint of color—as if someone had come along and only just begun to lay in some paint—had then, instead, given it the slightest hue. I would have been almost mesmerized by that—had I been able to focus on anything—anything at all—except for the soul wracking pain that had filled my world to the exclusion of everything else.

I had learned the hard way that the world does not just stop because you need to stop. It does not slow down, or let you off so that you can heal. You still need to find a way to make it to work, come home and cook. People expect you to act normal—to be normal. And if you are lucky, you will have family to help you through these times—not so lucky if you do not.

I was not so lucky. While I did have family, my family lived too far away. Two of my children were fairly close by, but neither were old enough to understand, yet, just how hard the world can kick your butt. Besides, your children look to you to see how you react to hard times. I wanted to show them strength—that it was okay to cry—but also, that time will heal all wounds. I didn’t want them to see that I wasn’t bouncing back.

I was in for a long, hard road of healing. I had beaten back the world too many times. I had refused to break while allowing too many rotten things to happen to me. I would not bend. I was a survivor. I could handle anything.

I had a lot to learn.

For one thing, I was quickly finding out that it doesn’t matter how strong you are. If you put yourself through enough—you will break. There is not a tree in the forest that will not fall down with the right tools. The hell that I had allowed myself to be put through proved to be that tool. The one needed to bring me down. I was exhausted—too exhausted to fight any more.

That is how I found myself looking around in amazement at my techno-colored world. I would race down the several blocks to the river, every time the panic threatened to swamp me and drown out my life forever. I’d choose a rock, asking for help, and channel my pain, my rage, my suffering into it,  giving up all my grief to the river. Slowly, I let the gentle surface of the water, and the powerful undertows, show me the way to heal my pain.