From the Depths of My Soul I Cry Out

There are times when I see something or someone specific and think of the past. Sitting in Blackbird, a man walked into my peripheral vision and he was pouring cream into his coffee. I first noticed his hands. Rough, old, and tan. My pupils dilated to see the full view of this hard working man, wearing his dark blue pants, and light blue shirt. An auto mechanic's shirt, with the sewn in name tag, black cursive writing, and his name...Doug.  Sunglasses that sat on his blondish-white hair that was almost as long as a mullet but not enough to call it one. I couldn't help but have the feeling that I was so proud of him. That I appreciated him for whatever he has done for the world and will do. A sense that he was special to the world, to me, without having to do a thing. The funny thing is that every man I've ever met with rough, thin, tan skin were men that treated the people in my life with the upmost disrespect. Men I hated the most. I remember all their faces, their names, their violence. I remember the finest details of their physical features; from the acne scars on their face to the calloused hands that rubbed me the wrong way.

It's been over 8 years since I've seen one of those "men." I know that I'm healed because I am able to look at a man that I don't know, with similar features, and be proud of him. A subconscious feeling that I didn't even have to try and create inside me. It almost makes me want to cry.

It reminds me of the story I wrote awhile ago about the little boy that touched my heart. I've been thinking about that moment a lot lately and I've come to realize that I myself was that child. I can look back and remember the times I'd lay my head across the table in class, hoping that someone would notice me. That my hurt was real and that it was worth giving attention to. I was definitely connected to that child and I did want to take him home...but I think he reminded me of the pain I had felt so long ago and had forgotten about. Of course...it all makes sense now. Growing up I was never listened to. I had no voice. As I grew older, I became more popular. Now I have a ton of friends and people who love me and listen to me. Because I went through such pain and misunderstanding, I tend to seek out people that I know are hurting. I reach out to people I know other people won't talk to or give a chance to because I know they are just like me and they have SO much to say but no one will listen. Even mentally ill patients have something to tell us. They have a voice too. This little boy had a voice and he wanted so badly to share it but wasn't listened to enough...so he got quiet. I love that little boy and I pray to God he heals and uses that voice to change the world one day.