Anvils

I feel it creeping up on me long before I can see it or smell it or taste it. And yet, saying so seems redundant; isn't that what I always say? This time, it was the same. It stalks me, and I try to hide or dodge. It tiptoes and I turn and run. But inevitably it catches up.

What is it about me that leads people to believe I want to carry their dead weight? That I want to be unloaded on, time after time? "I CAN'T FIX YOUR SHIT" I want to scream. If I ever were to, scream, that is, I would only hear an echo of empty walls, for no one stands and holds my hand but myself. But the weight is suffocating, some days, and maybe it's only for a reminder to myself, not so much a reminder for anyone else. My heart and life and spirit witness things that are so very close and real, they are heavy and I take them on.

Helpless, I am, in so many ways...and I know the fault lies somewhere between the reality that I really do never let anyone in, not truly...and my hearts desire to protect the people I love from the anvils I carry...no one else should have to even see them. It is from this that people garner the belief that I have room, and strength, to spare, because my anvils are not on display, they think I have none. So I add more, perpetually, without a gizzard to break down the stones.

And yet, somehow, every day, someone adds an anvil, often without even knowing, but sometimes with the expectation that I am able to care, for I hide my own burdens well. Erin is strong, she's a beacon of hope, she's a lighthouse in a storm, she's an anchor, a well-rooted old-growth tree. These are the words spoken over me through countless years. But do they realize I seem so strong only from the years of practice; what I have carried of my own? The shame I would ever feel for allowing anyone to share my burden, that would only mean I had failed to carry it myself. I am no stronger than you are, I am only better at hiding my weakness.

As I dig and unravel, I find a new piece every day. Sometimes I am able to let it go, to slide it off my weathered back, and simply add it to the pile. But then sometimes I lie awake at night and compose imaginary letters in my mind, dreaming of ways I could fix things, even the hopeless things, even the things I cannot control, if only I possessed the magical combination of words. Then I have nightmares about drowning and jumping off cliffs and think tomorrow something has to change. But it doesn't.

(I want everyone to see this paragraph.) Then I stop here and think, will those who read these words project themselves into my feelings? I know all too well who the people are who will wonder if these words are about them, so, you must know, it is not you. If you have stopped to wonder if it is you, then it is most decidedly not you. If have ever asked me how I am and truly care...and if I have ever felt safe enough to unload some of my anvils upon you, it is certainly not you. For I do have many wonderful people in my life who will help me carry; and a little at a time I am learning to share the yoke.

The problem is those who continue to chuck their stones at me and holler "catch" before I have time to duck, but who never could begin to see themselves in these words, even if they were told. It is those who never wonder where my strength comes from, who never wonder if I carry my own pain or ask me how I am, certain I am well, they unload and go on their merry way. Those who assume my tolerance is unending, that my shoulders are broad and strong and never see my back bend under their additions.

Yes, throw stones at me, endlessly, and yes, I will meld them into anvils, eventually to stand upon them, climb from my prison and walk away. Then you may put your stones in the space I have left behind; I won't need them anymore.


Note: This post is simply a part of my process. I won't promise that I'm not being dramatic to make a point, because it must be said, even if I'm overstretching it. And it really isn't directed at anyone in particular, but at a mentality that I must defend myself against if I'm to ever heal. I also don't promise that I'm not at least 50% to blame; some days I go looking for stones to carry, because it is the only thing I know how to do; I'm good at it, and many days I feel worthless if my arms are empty. Wrong or right, it's who I am, but I'm trying to learn to uncarry things. My "therapist" says I need to learn not to carry so much; this admission that I can't and don't want to carry the things I do is good practice for me.