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You Just Follow
Why is he going that way? Doesn’t he know what is over there?
I reminded myself that there were many choices down that path. Just because he walked in that direction, didn’t mean he would fall.
He walked with such purpose, though. Terrible and decisive purpose.
That’s not a bad thing. Having a purpose is a good thing. Sometimes, it’s the only thing.
Besides, why would he work so hard to climb out of that hole, only to run back to it? Why? That doesn’t make sense and he’s not stupid. Relax. You get to relax. It’s been 3 years now. You can let go.
I knew better. I knew where he was going. I followed him, because that is what we do. We just follow.
He didn’t break his stride, he just dove right down the rabbit hole. Then I noticed something terrible. I missed it at first because I was distracted by the scream that circled through my brain. The scream had been quiet for years, but not gone. It picked back up as soon as I noticed him walk by.
What I noticed, was the other boy. He was standing at the edge and he was crying. He backed away, but his sadness blinded him and he tripped. He didn’t mean to follow, it was just an accident. But down he went.
So I followed. Because that is what we do. We just follow.
In the movies, the scene where Alice falls down the rabbit hole, the journey takes a long time. Alice falls and yawns and drinks tea and watches the rabbit.
That’s not how real falls work, though. The rabbit hole is dark and brutal and there are rocks that jut out. My head aches from smashing against the rocks again and again. Roots from trees rip out my hair and whip across my face. I can see the boys I am following and want to get closer. If I could get a little closer, I could shield their heads from the rocks. If I could just put myself between them and danger, then the pain of my injuries wouldn’t matter. The pain would be worth it.
I never get close enough, though. Do I? Close enough for a front row seat, but not close enough to fix their pain.
Then the fall ends. We hit the ground and our knees buckle. The ground is cold and wet. There is no little door. There is no key. There is no bottle that says ‘drink me’ or a cake that says ‘eat me’.
The older boy looks tired. The younger boy looks scared.
I want to put them on my back and claw my way out of the hole. But I can’t.
You knew that when you jumped and you jumped anyway.
I can ask them to follow me. But I can’t save them. I can’t save anyone. The only person I’ve ever been able to save is myself.
It’s going to take a long time to climb out of this hole. I can’t even see the light anymore.
I find a foot hold and I start to climb out. I don’t want to look back because I’m too afraid that I will find no one is behind me.
You hear that, though don’t you? You hear them. They’re coming. Is that laughter? Are they laughing? Maybe they are helping each other. Don’t look down. Just keep climbing.
I reach the top, lay on my stomach and look down the hole, only it’s not a rabbit hole. I know it’s not a rabbit hole. It’s a hole to hell. I reach into the darkness and wait for a hand to take mine.
When I feel skin contact my skin, the relief is so strong that it feels like pain.
We made it out. We’re weary and scared and a little more wise.
Please let that be my last trip.
Please.
This will be the second time I’ve read this and if I read it one hundred more I will probably still have the same reaction. It knotted my stomach and brought tears to my eyes. I have lived this over and over for many years. First myself then with my own daughter. It’s painful but hopeful. I hope all of us have made our last trip down the hole, my friend.
Wonderfully and soulfully written, Michelle. Thank you for sharing it. I know it will help someone feel a little less alone today.
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Not feeling alone is precious. And thank you…
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They say there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. What they don’t tell you is that the light sometimes is what draws us in.
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This is true..
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By the way, I had to pause for a while before responding because this was such a wonderfully powerful piece, Michelle. Gut-wrenching in its description, heartfelt in its telling.
Thank you for sharing the pain, and most importantly the hope.
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I’m so sorry, Michelle. I wish I had some wisdom to impart, but all of have is condolences. I can’t even imagine. (hugs)
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Thank you. Right now, things are good. I am trying to live in the moment.
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I’m glad things are going well currently. I know we don’t know each other that well yet, but if ever you need to reach out, just remember I’m on the south side of the river. I will help in any way I can.
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I felt your words, viscerally. Ir gives me chills no matter how many times I read it. I can’t imagine how hard it’s been, but I’m happy to know things are better now. *hugs*
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Thank you, Beth…and yes..it’s good..but so very new that it’s hardly worth letting go of the anxiety yet. haha.
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“Don’t look down. Just keep climbing.” This is all we can do, isn’t it? Beautifully conveyed, Michelle. This strikes deep.
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Thank you so much!
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I see something more in your words every time I read this.
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Beautifully written. I’ve had friends and even family go down that hole. Some have never returned. As much as I’ve cried over never having children, I’m grateful that I’ve never had to follow anyone down. Fingers crossed, fists clenched, prayers and hugs
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Thank you…I really appreciate that.
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That’s quite the silver lining. *sigh*
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This is beautifully written. Take care. 🙂
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Thank you. 🙂
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The reasons may be different for all of us, but you take a personal pain and write it so that we can all relate. I haven’t been through what you’ve been through but this still spoke to me as a mom. It still brings me to tears. Parenting is the scariest ‘effin thing in the world. All we can do is hope that they will follow us each time they fall in the hole. Gut wrenching and beautiful at the same time.
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Big squishy hugs to you, sister.
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I don’t have the words. Not yet. I probably should have waited to comment, but I was afraid I’d forget to, later.
But I just don’t have the words. It was that powerful.
Love you, sisterwife. I’m rooting for you.
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Thank you, gorgeous. I’m good. I really am. I wasn’t for a while, but you knew that.
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I believe these were the words you were looking for : “Love you, sisterwife. I’m rooting for you.”
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Yes. They were.
You’re amazing, Matticus. Huge bloggy love, comin’ at you!
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I hope that is your last fall, your last time following them into the hole…I wish, I hope, I pray.
(side note – this was wonderfully written – your words helped put me at the bottom of that hole right along with you.)
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I hope it is too…I’m just grateful to be out of it right now.
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Just don’t forget, if you happen to find yourself at the bottom again, to call out for help… we’ve got rope, and strong arms and we can help pull you up. We’ll still have to wait for the others to climb out, but we’ll keep you company at the top until they do.
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Matt…it might have gotten a little dusty when I read your comment.
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*shaking fist furiously at dust* Why must you always be showing up and causing no ends of shenanigans!!!
(Unless you meant “misty” rather than “dusty”, in which case, ignore the above and go with the below)
*holds hand out with a hankerchief* We’ve got lots of these to spare too.
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*****POWERFUL.*******
One thing I know for sure, and I don’t know much, is that LIGHT always overpowers darkness.
Thank God, or I would have fallen into hell by now.
X kiss from MN.
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Thank you. And yes, yes it always does.
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Somewhere between what everyone who’s a parent said, and what Barbara said…that’s where I land. This feels hopelessly double-edged to me, and I’m afraid I trust myself no further than to say that the ‘Alice in Nightmareland’ parallel of the style, and the simplicity with which you wrote this piece convey a very, very powerful message.
And an important one, too. And one which, for anyone in the same situation, will be comforting to know.
Kudos to you, brave Michelle 🙂
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Thank you, Lizzi…I am happy to have this outlet…it means a lot to me.
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Absolutely ugly-beautiful and gut-wrenching. And the metaphor allowed it to be a million different rabbit holes for a million different worlds.
Such strength. Keep climbing.
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Thank you. I purposely didn’t say WHAT the issues were because they are multiple. It can be many things that cause people to take a tumble.
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so feekin’ awesome… made me think, and feel, and gasp, and then think again.
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Thank you! It wasn’t easy to write, but I’m glad I did
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me too
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Jesus H, Michelle. I think my heart my just beat right out of my chest. The writing here…wow. The story though….sigh. I hope it’s the last time, too. I really do.
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So beautifully expressed, Michelle. Since I am not a parent, I can’t relate to these feelings as much as I can to most of your posts, but I felt your pain, and despair, and now, your hope. Hugs.
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Such a wrenching post. Nothing makes you feel more helpless than watching someone you love more than your own life jump down that hole. And that’s what they do, they jump. They don’t fall. I’ve jumped a time or two myself. All we can do is wait at the top, with a hand out to help lift them out.
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So happy you found your way out. I know your story will help others out as well. ❤
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This made me cry, Michelle! I love, love, LOVE your writing!
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