When the world comes crashing down, everyone hopes there will helping hands to share the load. The reality is, you’re always going to be fighting that battle alone.
The phone calls will be there. The offers of assistance will be presented, but the truth remains – no one can fathom the depths you have to climb to make it out alive.
They may try to carry you, to hold your hand, to help you on your way. In the end, however, it is always you who must carry the burden alone.
The security you need, the undivided attention that is necessary, cannot be provided. The cell phones and other distractions of life get in the way. You know that going in. You hope each time – this time and the next – it will be different. It never is.
Your hopes are dashed. Anger swells. It needs to be quashed. The pain is yours to bear. Their lives cannot accommodate you, even in the smallest of ways. This is your burden to carry – and to carry it alone.
The sleepless nights and the agony of despair are familiar comforts in a world that does not have the capacity nor the time to care. The desire may be there, but the realities of life – the life you are not a part of – is clear. Your journey is for you, for you alone.
The helping hands cannot reach farther than just below the surface. You must be your own support and claw your way back from the depths of darkness alone.
You’re never sure how much more you can endure, but you know you must. You simply keep going. Some days are numb, others full of pain. Somehow, you pick yourself up, dust off the loneliness, the tears, the aches of disappointment and carry on.
You pick up the pieces, for the millionth time, and start your solitary journey again. Some pieces are replaced. Some are irreparably broken. You’ll carry those with you, tucked secretly away. They are still a part of you.
You’ll walk down that dark path in solitude, mend the pieces of your life along the way. Each step brings something new, but you’ll always be experiencing it alone.
Heavy is the heart that bears the burden of the singular soul. It weeps in silence over the failure of yet another instance of solitary confession, of knowing you must do this alone.
It is what it is. You’ve made peace with the blurred faces with offers of perfunctory relief. They do not stay. You’re journey cannot be shared. You have to do this on your own.