Sometimes I feel as though I’m standing on the edge of an explosion.
My soul trembles with exhaustion and my legs beg to give way. My very existence feels frail. But I usually ignore the warning signs. It’s just not sexy to give in to mediocrity. It doesn’t feel strong to admit you just need a night off.
I’m too good at pushing myself past the point of warning signs. I drive through the orange light at 90km, blind to it’s rational suggestion.
And then I explode.
Usually, I get sick. And I’m not the kind of person that gets physically sick very often. But I think I always find it a little bit of a relief. Finally, I have collected enough bruises that they start to leak through my skin for society to see, touch and name.
My body doesn’t let me ‘last’ any longer. My body forces me to stop and let somebody else take care of me, which is something I don’t let a lot of people do. It gives them an in.
Compassion becomes my morphine drip.
I’m so used to being strong, all of the time. Always being the one that always looks after everyone, that when my body fails me, all want is for somebody to scoop up all the broken pieces and just hold them. I will always be able to put myself back together again, but in the in-between, someone to hold the pieces, is what I want more than my heart can explain.
When I was little, I almost lusted after the sniffle that tickled my nostrils and the rasping scratch that tore at my throat, because when I was sick my Father would pick up the pieces. He brought me water and Panodol in bed, and made me hot lemon tea. He didn’t try to fix me, he just let me be weak for a little while.
Nobody has ever been very good at holding my pieces.
Last night I let someone tell me what to do. I let someone be controlling and caring. We drank tea and I let them carry me to bed. I could have picked up my own pieces, but it was such a relief to not have to. I could have stood up and walked easily to my bed, I wasn’t that sleepy, but there was something overwhelmingly comforting about being carried like a child.
So much effort expended on my expense, I almost let the gratitude leak from my eyes. I think deep down, I don’t think I deserve anyone else to help me juggle my puzzle. I don’t think the whole picture is worth the effort. But maybe I’m wrong.
Maybe everyone deserves someone to help pick up their pieces when they drop them.