I JUST got into this wonderful book, Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. I love it yet I can’t finish it in one go like I normally would with other books. This book enlightens me yet scares my consciousness. It speaks to me yet it pains me to read it. I have to eat this book up in segments or I think I’ll be scraped raw from picking at my old battle wounds.
I am great at denial. I carelessly but not fearlessly wear my heart on my sleeve. I am a sponge of emotions. I am able to box them up and hoard them for years to come. When I’m feeling nostalgic, I re-open my Pandora’s box and I feed off of the good memories and tune out all the bad. And why not? They are mine to do as I wish. And besides, I am no longer scared of the skeletons in my closet. They are/were parts of me at one point.
Well, that’s what I keep telling myself.
The problem is that I take them out and lay them out from time to time. They’re all laid out in front of me like clothes I can’t fit into anymore and I just stare at them. Then after awhile, I forget why I took took them out at all and proceed to neatly fold them back in their box. This book scares me because I realize why I do this agonizing ritual from time to time: I have numbed myself so much that I feel nothing when it comes to my past. Instead of actually feeling and going through the motions of pain, sadness, betrayal, despair, and/or unrequited love at that specific time in my life, I had efficiently trained myself to skip a step and swiftly sweep it under the rug. It’s quite the skill. Took me years to get it right. : )
I think my heart is the culprit behind all this. Reverberance of some unfinished business. It echoes throughout the caverns of my heart and that my friends, is the nostalgia that I feel as I read this book. It’s haunting and this river of the Styx lulls me into a strange limbo.
This book infuriates me.
I see why I need to finish it.