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Where I Cannot See, I Am.



I lose myself in the memories. The ones that hurt, the ones that leave a sting in my bones. The memories that are not always reachable but seep in the darkness of the night.


I lose myself in the what if’s, what if things were different, what if I only would have done what I knew I needed to do. What if I only knew what I needed to know.


I lose myself in moments of utter shame. Engulfed with pain and the desire to hide, but finding there is nowhere to go. Instead, I am made to sit in to urge to leave, but paralyzed, I must stay and face the pain of being seen.


I lose myself in comparing. Oh, the feeling of wishing you could be more similar to another who holds such grander in mind. The parts that feel inadequate cling to try and find a model to which completion exists, while somewhere deep knowing it doesn’t.


I lose myself in anger. In the years of silencing my voice, my truth. Pushing it down somewhere where words no longer live. Instead, I shut out the voice that held my power because I was forced to. Did I silence me, or was I silenced, the question my anger ask and wails to want to know.


I lose myself in anxiety. Worrying about my worries. Worrying about others’ worries. Worrying about not worrying. Stumbling to reach clarity and solid ground, I somehow misplaced my body. Twisting and jerking, I try and attempt to find it again but get lost somewhere in my mind, for there is too much to think about.


I lose myself in my grief. My broken heart, my body, now filled with holes that were once filled with love. Grief has a way of taking me out of linear time and space, bringing me to a new dimension I did not know existed. Here, I feel my lungs fill up with loss, my eyes heavy with centuries full of tears. When I am here, I cannot be anywhere else.


I can sometimes lose myself in any of these places. Sometimes for shorter moments and at other times for longer nights. It has taken a lot of practice to find myself again, but eventually, I do. I find myself in the memories, in sweet certainty, in the vulnerability that releases my shame. I find myself in the feeling of being enough and worthy. I find myself in my power, in my voice that is no longer able to be silenced. I find myself in the protection of my worries and the ease of calm that visits when I least expect it. I find myself in my grief, in my broken heart, and in my body that does not always feel whole. I find myself in my words, in my tongue, in my hands, in my love. I find myself in my story.





This essay was written thanks to a monthly theme "Lost" from Illuminate, a writing community from The Kindred Voice.


Read more pieces about Lost from my fellow Illuminate members:


Can Anyone Really Be Lost? by Adeola Sheehy

Death and a Garbage Can: The World's Shortest Autopsy by Liz Russell

Carrying My Invisible Baggage by Crystal James

This Way Toward Disaster by Laci Hoyt

Getting Lost in Motherhood by Christine Carpenter

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