…to be real

Once, I accidentally cut myself on the serrated edge of an aluminum foil box.  It hurt so much I actually almost cried.  My husband came in when he heard the foul language coming out of my mouth and asked me what was wrong.  I mustered up the most pathetic hurt face I could and stuck my finger out for him to see secretly hoping he’d shower me with his sympathy.  “It’s not bleeding,” is all he could say.  As quickly and swiftly as I cut my finger his lack of sympathy cut deeper. 

A heartache is much like that cut that doesn’t bleed, if you can’t see the blood then it must not hurt.  In life we base our opinions and even our decisions on something visual.   If we can’t see it then it must not exist.  We walk or stumble through our lives with such little faith in the things we cannot see or touch.  Feeling something isn’t enough; it doesn’t make it real.  We’re like that velveteen rabbit who needs to be ‘real’ in order to be loved and without realness we’re just ghosts lingering in the background.  And so the heartache becomes like the last drop of ketchup in the bottom of the bottle you throw away; there isn’t enough in there worth keeping.

The pain I feel now isn’t bleeding on the outside and so as I walk through  my day people expect me to be as I always have been, real.  They cannot see my broken heart and sometimes neither can I but when I close my eyes and I’m left without vision, being real is subjective.

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