Peace

Growing up in unending turmoil there were many normal experiences I never knew. I wasn’t able to remove myself from the constant dysfunction until I went to college, and it was in my senior year that I finally found peace. Of course, as with any life, issues arose from time to time in the years that followed. But that peace I found kept me grounded throughout them. That peace kept me centered. That peace consistently gave me hope that everything would resolve.

It lasted a beautiful eight years. Eventually my then therapist seemed to get bored with how well I handled everything and decided she needed to cut into my scars. Sure they were still visible, but decades of growth had covered them with fresh skin so that they no longer bothered me. But she was adamant that if she could cut them open then she could heal them so it’d be like they were never there. And I was naive enough to believe her. Increasingly therapy sessions felt less and less like clinical aid and more like handing over salacious stories. And those scars she was cutting open became gaping wounds.

I was bleeding out and no one was stitching me back up, but rather cutting me up more. I was losing my grip on my peace as I plunged further and further into chaos. And somewhere in that madness my peace completely slipped away.

Now as more and more troubles find me I’m less able to cope. My scars that took twenty-two years to heal have fresh scabs covering them that seem to stay fresh even after a few years. I can’t focus on new cuts when I’m overwhelmed by old ones already. I’m not balanced. I’m not centered. I have no hope of a good future.

I want my peace back.