Wreck
So thanks be to a dear friend of mine, she let me borrow this fantastic thing from her website (I ASKED! Its okay!). I love this post she did for her website - Inspiring and dark.
From the recesses of GS come Wreck!
She was told she was a wreck monday morning.
Her clients brashly accused her of doing her job and failing miserably even in the wake of the old woman's pains and sorrow. This time it wasn't her fault, and she was simply an innocent victim in the mess of the old woman's life, taking the blame and agony away for a moment while the old woman screamed her grief.
Tuesday she is still a wreck because what started monday, carried on to tuesday...
And not only was she unable to speak, she couldn't even pick up the phone to face the old woman's wrath. After careful instructions and obvious explanations, there was still a hesitation and fear that prevented her from doing her job in the first place and now her co-worker has to pay the price for her inability.
She's a wreck on wednesday because the one she wants won't call her back.
She's lost on whether or not she should give in and call him because she does not want to sound as desperate as she is, but she can't stand the growing darkness of foreboding as other start to knock on the door to her heart that are so much closer... The truth of a close distance relationship is frightening and real.
Nobody notice's she's a wreck on thursday.
The pain in her shoulder keeps spreading like a burning firey itch and it just won't go away. She hasn't slept through the night in two days, and with the way its throbbing, protesting to every movement, she knows tonight will be another sleepless night as she turns on her lamp to read in a last ditch effort to ignore the burning.
Mother knows she's a wreck on Friday;
Because keeping secrets is a sin and the relationship she wants to be in is an uneven yoke even though mother doesn't know that there is no relationship; just a joke of a friendship. Mother also knows that she's afraid of moving on to become something for fear of something she just can't say. With the knowledge that no matter how its phrased or who says it, telling her mother the truth would mean certain death to everything she needs to hold onto to keep from going crazy.
The massage therapist can feel it in her bones during her Saturday appointment; this girl is a wreck.
She says it out loud and asks what she does with her stress, and she can only admit to bottling it because there is no outlet, no sacred place to scream and cry and let it be. The pain in her shoulder, the knots in her back are all a physical reminder that she's a big mess still needing to be picked up, and there is no one willing to help her pick up the pieces close enough to deal with the aftermath. She still hasn't slept through an entire night and the circles are starting to form under her eyes when she ducks under the covers and grimaces, knowing she'll be up for another four hours placating her physical, spiritual, and mental wounds.
It isn't Sunday....
But she knows as soon as she walks into that building with a coffee in her hand and a croissant in the other that they will remind her she's a wreck. A big ball of imperfection, wanting the things she can't have, being angry, frustrated, tired of fighting and crying and not being able to just let go: Be a human being. Its getting harder to cope with each passing day and she prays the scathing accusation will end: She is an unadulterated, unpassified, undignified, unsanctified, pent up, pathetic, simpering, slaving, wreck.
When Monday rolls around, it will be swept up and put in presentable pile. She'll still be a wreck... But at least when the week starts, nobody will notice as much.
From the recesses of GS come Wreck!
She was told she was a wreck monday morning.
Her clients brashly accused her of doing her job and failing miserably even in the wake of the old woman's pains and sorrow. This time it wasn't her fault, and she was simply an innocent victim in the mess of the old woman's life, taking the blame and agony away for a moment while the old woman screamed her grief.
Tuesday she is still a wreck because what started monday, carried on to tuesday...
And not only was she unable to speak, she couldn't even pick up the phone to face the old woman's wrath. After careful instructions and obvious explanations, there was still a hesitation and fear that prevented her from doing her job in the first place and now her co-worker has to pay the price for her inability.
She's a wreck on wednesday because the one she wants won't call her back.
She's lost on whether or not she should give in and call him because she does not want to sound as desperate as she is, but she can't stand the growing darkness of foreboding as other start to knock on the door to her heart that are so much closer... The truth of a close distance relationship is frightening and real.
Nobody notice's she's a wreck on thursday.
The pain in her shoulder keeps spreading like a burning firey itch and it just won't go away. She hasn't slept through the night in two days, and with the way its throbbing, protesting to every movement, she knows tonight will be another sleepless night as she turns on her lamp to read in a last ditch effort to ignore the burning.
Mother knows she's a wreck on Friday;
Because keeping secrets is a sin and the relationship she wants to be in is an uneven yoke even though mother doesn't know that there is no relationship; just a joke of a friendship. Mother also knows that she's afraid of moving on to become something for fear of something she just can't say. With the knowledge that no matter how its phrased or who says it, telling her mother the truth would mean certain death to everything she needs to hold onto to keep from going crazy.
The massage therapist can feel it in her bones during her Saturday appointment; this girl is a wreck.
She says it out loud and asks what she does with her stress, and she can only admit to bottling it because there is no outlet, no sacred place to scream and cry and let it be. The pain in her shoulder, the knots in her back are all a physical reminder that she's a big mess still needing to be picked up, and there is no one willing to help her pick up the pieces close enough to deal with the aftermath. She still hasn't slept through an entire night and the circles are starting to form under her eyes when she ducks under the covers and grimaces, knowing she'll be up for another four hours placating her physical, spiritual, and mental wounds.
It isn't Sunday....
But she knows as soon as she walks into that building with a coffee in her hand and a croissant in the other that they will remind her she's a wreck. A big ball of imperfection, wanting the things she can't have, being angry, frustrated, tired of fighting and crying and not being able to just let go: Be a human being. Its getting harder to cope with each passing day and she prays the scathing accusation will end: She is an unadulterated, unpassified, undignified, unsanctified, pent up, pathetic, simpering, slaving, wreck.
When Monday rolls around, it will be swept up and put in presentable pile. She'll still be a wreck... But at least when the week starts, nobody will notice as much.