Open Wounds

A Vicodin, a bottle of wine, a pack of cigs… by no means the perfect night, but the one she had chosen. Grammy had given her the Vicodin, a sympathetic old woman who’d lived a long life and had back pain. Bless her. The rest was purchased on the trek home from a long useless day. It was time to hide, time to reflect, time to move on after one good evening of self deprecation. Thank goodness it was Friday.

Sheila was aware of her faults better than most. A constant reminder while growing kept her quite in tune with her ineptitude, emotiveness and strangeness. Forty was upon her like a joy and a looming cloud. She had never been more attractive or desired. She had never felt so God awful tired. Not so much physically, but mentally. A night alone to suffer the ills of life and to rejuvenate through acts of pondering was in order. It had been a painful breakup, a short relationship filled with an immense amount of stirring.

Half way through the bottle of wine, Sheila laid on the floor. She stared at the ceiling, her glass held tightly and resting on her belly, smoke dancing above her in a cloud conjuring up old memories. She felt happy and disattatched, yet, she felt the wounds. They were wide open again, begging for attention. Now was the time to look at them. So, she did.

Why had this one man been so difficult to get over? She forced back the tears and looked at her arm. A gash was wide open. She knew it well. It was part of her youth. Sheila remembered the abuse of her home. So little happiness filled the walls. She was not abused in the typical sense. It was just a sadness of being around unhappy lives and the suffering of being at the bottom, a scapegoat for all the shit that everyone else had to deal with. What did this make her crave?, she wondered. Love… acceptance… peace of the soul… happiness.

Sheila was a believer steadfast on her search for a world of good. She was not so much cynical as skeptical. Everyone wants this. Everyone will claim that this is their goal, but few know how to achieve it. Few care enough of others to actually bring it to fruition. That is why. That is why this evening was necessary. The Vicodin, the bottle of wine, the cigs could all be forgotten in lieu of the beauty that this achievement was possible.

Three quarters of the way through the bottle of wine, Sheila reflected on the men she had been with. A glance down at her leg revealed another horrific wound. It was bleeding fervently. They were not bad people, she thought. Although, she knew she gravitated toward the sadists. Why? They only brought her pain, not a feeling of love. It takes an adult to admit where they have came from and to change it. She realized that she needed someone who had discovered this as she had. She needed someone who did not need to hurt her. The wound on her leg opened wider, and she was overwhelmed by it’s immensity.

Pondering sweatily upon her choices, she recognized a theme. Sheila recognized an internal desire to save people. She could not help her parents, being only a child. She could not help her siblings due to lack of authority. It was her fondest wish. If we all just believe in ourselves, there is no need to hurt others. There is no need to feel unloved or strange or undesirable. Their is someone and something out there to fit every person in the entire world. Just because the place a person comes from does not appreciate the uniqueness of a soul does not mean that there aren’t places for everyone.

Sheila finished off the wine. Another wound appeared, this time it was near her heart. It pulsated and beckoned her to ask more questions. Was her profession a mockery? Had she become a therapist out of her own selfish need to heal others? Did it matter? Could she offer proper counsel in her own lonely existence? The world closed tight around her. She was good at what she did. She cared. Isn’t that the important part? She wished happiness on everyone. She cried for those who weren’t happy. She cried for herself.

The next morning, Sheila woke up with a headache. It did not daunt her. Forward march, she told herself. You are no more important than anyone else. She went on. She helped people. She helped herself. Strong, capable, beautiful. She would find her own peace.

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