I’ve scrambled the stony, unmarked path back from the bottom of the darkness enough times I know I can survive anything.
Traumas from the past create in me abounding strength, armour as hard as nails and chinks that reveal my vulnerable weakness underneath. But it feels like my armour is starting to look like grandmas crochet, more chinks than steel. For each scramble I make back up that stoney path I feel more tired and scared I wont make it next time. As I fall again the darkness becomes unbearable, each layer of darkness from the past laying on top of one another creating an impenetrable mass.
But I’m grateful for my new crochet armour because I know the vulnerability is what will allow me to heal, to see, to understand. When I fall into the darkness I fall deeper because I have dared to explore a hurt that I had buried even further down. The journey is arduous but rewarding. My armour slowly turning into the blanket that warms me, the wool caressing my scarred skin. The beautiful scars that are painted on me like artwork, the cracks that let in the light.