Dark Passenger

Dark Passenger

Loving a narcissist who wore many faces had now left me void of emotion. I was grieving fiercely, even if on the surface I appeared to be undisturbed. It was at this point in my life where I finally understood that a person did not need to shed a tear in order to be breaking on the inside. I lost myself in his shadow. I assumed that his every opinion of me was both accurate and sincere. I was eager to give him the power to shape and mold me into the naïve and dependent woman that he desired I would be. I lost myself in the echo of his voice. Craving both clarity and closure, I fought tirelessly to try and help him understand that when words cut like knives, people suffer. In the moments where I would privately agonize over the gaping wounds that he would inflict upon my soul, I seemed to be grieving more than what I had lost and the future that I assumed would always be mine. I was subconsciously grieving myself. He had my entire identity grasped by its throat, choking the life out of my empathy and all of the other qualities that formed together to make up who I was. As the light left my eyes, I no longer recognized the woman I saw in the mirror; I was a a hollow shell of myself, both empty and void of anything of true value.

In much less time than I would have hoped for, I found myself inspired by someone new in my life. He presented with jokes to help ease the pain. His dark sense of humor, stimulated by rage, was to my surprise, a highlight to my own dark passenger. I guess it is true what they say, that laughter is indeed the best medicine. Even in his darkest of hours, when he would sometimes let his demons out to play, I could never dream of running into the arms of anyone else. I wouldn't feel safe there anyway. I could never turn and look away from the storm in his eyes. I would instead stare deeply into his rage filled irises and perhaps even with a shaky voice and unsteady hands, I would take his in mine and whisper "it is okay. I'm here.. always". I knew in that moment that there was nothing he could ever say or do that would scare me away. 

Both naked and vulnerable, I envisioned myself running away, never to turn back. When I first looked into his eyes, I felt frozen in place.. intimidated by his malice and dominance. But instead, something continuously urged me to scratch beyond the surface of him. As he drew me close to him, I could feel the steady pound of his heart beat. He seemed to be effortlessly reviving the part of me that felt like it had died a long time ago. But even in the safety and security of his embrace, visions of my most recent past ravenously echoed in my mind. No matter how skilled I seemed to be at wearing a detailed mask, the grief was still fresh, raw, and very much alive within me.

 

I had always considered the act of healing to be excruciatingly painful, much like cauterizing a gaping wound. I was tragically astounded by the fact that during this chapter of my grief story, I did not feel much of anything. It felt like being awake during surgery, but unable able to feel the pain. But somehow, something inside me both knew and understood that the numbness I was experiencing in the present moment was but a mere anesthetic to loss. There was no anticipating when the "Novocain" would suddenly wear off. There was no predicting when or even if I would ever feel the wave of Grief come at me once again with full force, with the intent of knocking me off my feet. But for now, I was at peace with the fact that I was both awake and alive through the process, with his gentle, but strong and steady hand holding mine.