My heart is tired. Tired of battering itself against a brick wall.
For the past year I have thrown it again and again at the wall. Sometimes we’ve been close to the top, my heart and I, and have seemed a mere hair breadth for scrambling over, but the wall rose higher, and flummoxed our plans. We’d step back, eyeing it surreptitiously, pretending we’re weren’t interested. Then I’d have another go, promising my heart it was the last time, and then throw it again. Every time I threw harder. And every time my heart fell harder.
And now my heart has had enough. The last time was bad. It thought it might break. But it didn’t – it pulled through, and decided to sulk. It’s sitting underneath the wall, arms folded, avoiding eye contact and refusing to talk to me.
It is trying to heal the wounds, to repair the bruises and knit together the scrapes, but is hindered by my mind’s repeating picking at the scabs. There is some mad corner of my mind that enjoys watching the blood drip, that revels in hurting my heart, that believes feeling pain is better than feeling nothing.
So my heart ignores me, and sits in the shelter of the wall. It isn’t very comfortable, but it thinks it is better here than being out in the world. It’s worried I’ll throw it again, looking for the perfect catch. Ha. I won’t throw it again. I will hold it safe. I’m going to be far more careful of my heart, now I know how much it can feel. But still my heart stays close to the wall, refusing to leave. It is safe there. Unhappy and uncomfortable yes, but safe. The wall is a known quantity, even if it is not a particularly friendly one. My heart is going to need a lot of persuasion to move. Much more than I alone can muster...