For years I closeted my past with deadbolts, hammer, and nails.
Over time, what first began as a faint thud, gave way to repetitive knocks. I could hear them, those skeletons in my closet, they would not give up. Their relentless pursuit was to get me to stop, listen, and feel. As if employed with the determination of a prize fighter their drumming grew louder—over and over they tapped on the door of my cerebral cortex.
My strict policy of inaction was thankfully preempted by the desire to become whole, with unwavering resolve the nails were yanked, deadbolts thrown back, closet doors striped from their hinges.
Denying my experiences was no longer a viable option each skeleton represented a dodged emotion a hidden truth.
In the narrow hall within the attic of my mind I collapsed, one by one they gathered around me in a kneeling position and with grace beyond articulation lifted me to standing into their group embrace and there the first thread of self forgiveness was stitched into my heart.
Love begins inside…
Rebecca Guevara says
I like this post. Short, bittersweet, and real.
Thank you for this post. It is simple, yet moving. Sadly,I completely get it.