Because the sky is blue, it makes me cry… ♫

I am home today;I didn’t go to purgatory. Or high school. I think the two terms are basically interchangeable… but I am sick, I’m not chilling. I’m just not sick in the way most people perceive, as in I don’t have a cough/fever/sore throat; I’m sick in my heart.

Yesterday, we were in Transitions group at the clinic I go to. There were at least five new girls, it was the biggest group I’d had yet. I sat in the circle and listened to the pain in each new and old girl’s voice, felt the sorrow weighing them down, observed how beautiful each girl was in their own way. Their suffering literally broke my heart.

I wanted so badly to reach into every single one of their hearts and make them see how worthwhile they were; to fix them. To break the neck of the voice that told them they weren’t good enough in their own way. It hurt so much that my heart burned, and when we “checked out” and described how we were feeling, I started to cry. I told them I felt the pain, told them every single one of them was beautiful, and apologized for being so embarrassing.

It shattered something within me, and I’m not quite sure what. 

On the way home, I suddenly felt waves of sadness that wracked my body and filled my lungs with leaden air that I had to expel with great, heaving sobs. I’d laugh at the ridiculousness of it, but I couldn’t stop, and the laughter would be cut off my another cry of despair.

And that’s why I’m home now. To figure out what in me snapped.

Disclaimer, it wasn’t a bad snap. It was a snap that I think changed my life for the better. I felt so much love for each girl, each human and each pained heart that I cried because I couldn’t help them. I could help as far as I was able, by telling my story and telling the ways I discovered I AM worthwhile and I AM beautiful in my own, delicate, fragile, human way; but that is all. I cannot wash away their hatred for themselves. I cannot heal them.

I can’t make it all better! I can’t take their pain away! I can’t help them the way I wish to, so desperately wish to…

And by realizing this, by realizing… that everyone has a story. Everyone in that room was so different, we never would have been united if not for the one part of us that we all shared: the voice that lets all ice-cold criticism strangle us and all kindness slide off of us like tepid, lukewarm water. I felt the bonds of our souls, stronger than steel and more eternal than the Earth. I felt the ropes of emotion and of love weaving through us and embracing us in a way that was almost unbearable, to realize we are not as separate and distinct as we believe we are. We are all different people scientifically, with our own DNA and structure, but our insides are connected in a way that I couldn’t even bear to feel for even an instant.

It was too much, an overwhelming sense of a vast, boundless aura of human souls that we can always tap into, always ask for courage… love… faith… strength…kindness… all emotions, all stories, all histories and pains and loves swirled together into a being that I consider… my God. Of a sort.

I felt it for one moment, the love that being feels for each of us. It hurt, it broke my heart. It broke it clean in two pieces. The passion of our world, of our race, in an ocean we could swim in if we’d only learn how to feel again.

Now I’m rambling- basically, I think for the first time in a long time I felt the hand of my God. I also, however, felt the hand of something more important- myself. My own hand reached into my heart and ran it’s fingers over the jagged edges, smoothing them, healing them. Because, by feeling this intense love for the wonder and beauty in each individual in the room, no matter their size or shape… it couldn’t help but leave a slight vestige of the emotion for my own sub-conscious.

I felt the same intense love for myself.

I think that’s what really broke my heart. I don’t think my heart had felt accepted by it’s own body for a very, very, very long time.