We always talk in absolutes, and think that they are supportive, are caring, are helpful.
“Out of the darkness, there will be light”
Recovery feels gray right now; not normal, not dark, not light, but gray.
I am sleeping at night, but not recovering. I am not healing the physical (nervous scratches from the anxieties of the day) or emotional (itchy scars from family choosing to live in all-seeing blindness and a wife whose heart needs to know its own strength) wounds of the days. I wake up and walk through the gray, hoping that it will be survivable, hoping that it won’t do more damage than the coma at night can control.
No matter how many times I hear the absolutes, their support doesn’t get any better. Darkness has not begotten light, it has led to waiting for a hand to hear my screaming and truly pull me out of the grayness. This doesn’t feel like being on my road of recovery, it feels lost (I know it may seem like indulging in sadness, but it’s not; I’m reaching into the sadness that has taken over my soul, dragging it out and trying to understand it better, so I can cope).
What would feel better is a hug. Moreover, what would feel better is a hug that doesn’t cause me to recoil, because the emotional shit has scraped off the first twenty-two layers of my skin. I want a hug that I enjoy; I want to enjoy absolute love and not care about the noise.
The noise has left its mark; I am marked black, blue and grey. The mark is absolute.