I’ve always said, “Come on, move on. Enough with all this morning, enough crying- just Come on, move on”.
Mom died? lots of moms die every day- “Come on, move on”.
Youth is gone? lots of youths get lost-“Come on, move on”.
Seven years living inside the cult of religion, married to a man you never loved?- no big deal- “come on, move on”.
Raising two daughters alone in a land that devours its inhabitants, while their father doesn’t give a shit? shit happens- “come on, move on”.
“Come on, move on”, “Come on, move on”, “Come on, move on”
I am the queen of “Come on, move on.”
At least that’s what I thought…
Turns out I’m the servant, and ” Come on, move on ” was the king.
He waited for me with endless patience, the pain, all my life until today.
Pain doesn’t go anywhere if not addressed, so it turns out.
It waits, quietly, pretends to be asleep.
But it’s there, with the same intensity as it had in the beginning. Not a millimetre less. Maybe even more…
Why more? Maybe because since that initial moment it was put aside, more and more pains have arrived, which couldn’t be addressed, because that’s another thing I learned- when you repress pain, any pain that will come after it, will automatically be repressed as well.
One act of suppression is enough to create this mechanism in the soul, this conditioning of not addressing pain– and from that point onwards it’s like a railway track on which existence rushes forward.
So all the pains, since that initial repressed pain, wait patiently, all together, under the carpet where I swept them.
And then one day, when one finally dares to lift the carpet, one finds a group of pains waiting.
Sitting and playing cards, drinking beer and passing the time. The light that suddenly shines under the carpet blinds them, for they are used to live in the dark, and they, in response – panic; the table overturns, the cards scatter, and beer bottles break.
Puddles of beer and glass and a strong smell of alcohol fill the space as they all scream endlessly. They cover their eyes with all their might from the light and scream. For so many years they were there under the carpet playing cards, their eyes had never seen daylight. And when one isn’t exposed to daylight, daylight hurts.
And I, responsible for the whole event, the one who covered them with the carpet and kept them covered.
The one who smuggled them cards and beers, all to keep them quiet, have no choice but to bear the price of my actions, of my choices, even if they were made without awareness.
Pain doesn’t go anywhere.
It sits patiently under the carpet and waits.
Even if it means an entire lifetime.
