She forgave me

I’ve tried to appease her.
I’ve tried to expel her.
I’ve tried to transform her.
I’ve tried to shush her.
I’ve tried to entertain her. Distract her.
I’ve tried to reassign her.
I’ve told her to grow up. To shut up. To just go away.

I’ve tried to gag her.
I’ve unleashed her on loved ones.
I’ve given her chemicals.
I’ve made her listen to Ted Talks.
I’ve given her Ted Talks.
I’ve given her little games to play. I let her scroll.

And then I’ve gone back to trying to kill her.

I’ve taken her for the enemy, the voice blocking me from the mystery.
I’ve taken her for an artifact, a vestigial limb.
I’ve taken her for an overdeveloped left brain, or prefrontal cortex, or whatever part of the organ makes all the words, all the thoughts.

I’ve taken her for a wound, one I’ve devoted my life to healing.
I’ve taken her for a defect, one I’ve worked doggedly to repair.
I’ve taken her for a leg-iron, an anchor, a crutch, a corset, a costume.
I’ve taken her for a false front.

I’ve resented her for all these things. Hated her for most of them. For most of my life, I’ve hated her.

What I’ve never done - what I’ve never once in that whole long life done - is trust her.
What I’ve never done is acknowledge her.
What I’ve never done is recognize that she is the one who raised me. Raised us. Kept us alive.
What I’ve never understood is that she has brought us up, she has made the plans, made the creations, made life happen.

She is the one who’s gotten us here.
She doesn’t block the mystery. She hears it. She even translates it sometimes into speech, onto the page.

I’m where I am not in spite of her, but because of her.
Far from a brokenness, she is who has kept me whole.

And I’ve never even asked her a question.
And I’ve certainly never thanked her.
All I’ve ever done is rail against her.

And when I discovered this - when it became clear how I’ve done nothing but fight the greatest helper I’ve ever had -
when the realization broke upon me in a wave so huge it was blinding, do you know what she did?

She quietly stepped back. She didn’t make a sound. For once, for the first time, all was actually silent. I didn’t have a single word to explain it, let alone begin to apologize.

Because of course she’s the one whose job it was to muster the apology, and so she wouldn’t let one rise. She forgave me before I could even begin to process the regret.

And I saw she was not the petulant child I’d been treating her as, but a peer, or even an elder.
And she grew up, became right-sized. And so did I.

And we became friends.

And I listen to her now.
And I don’t shush her.
And I don’t numb her.
And I don’t sic her on anyone.

And we talk about what we hear, what we know.
And we work together to share it, if sharing is warranted.
(Mostly we just share it between ourselves.)

And we look to what we need, and we tell the truth about how we feel.
And things are quieter, and there’s less fear, because we have each other.

And I know I can trust her. I know I must trust her.
Because look at this life we’ve made - she’s made - even with me fighting her at every turn. Even with her having to drag me. (Turns out I was the leg-iron, not her.)

She’s not going anywhere. And as long as she isn’t, neither am I.

And I wonder - we wonder - now that we’re both facing the same direction, what is possible from here?