Grasshopper New Media Presents...

There comes moments in life, moments when you feel utterly helpless. Moments when someone close to you is breaking, fragmented, shattered. Moments when all you want is to desperately reach out to that person and hold them. Try to make everything go away, just give them peace. Comfort and peace and a safe place to fall apart, and then come slowly back together again.

There have been people in my life that have emotionally imploded. People that needed, desperately NEEDED a place to feel safe, a place to be real and to shed one of the several twisted masks they wore. In fact, I’ve been one of those people myself, alone and hidden - crying big scary sobs that seem to have no end. But for some reason, these people have been outside my reach: either by distance, or by circumstance, by responsibilities or by impenetrable emotional walls. For these people, there is no touch, no warmth of a sympathetic shoulder, no empathy to see them through. This ties my hands. Paralyzes me.

I can remember my very own darkest moments. The moments where I have retreated so far into myself it seemed impossible to return. Impossible to replace that mask on the crumpled and twisted face that was me. Sucked down, amid the torn scraps of what had once been a functional life, dismembered love and affection fused with mistrust, rejection and hurt. A time when virtually nothing could comfort me, wrapped in twisted metal thorns that bit into anyone daring to come close enough. Then, there was the lighthouse.

For me, the lighthouse is that person, that rock - that mainstay that you must return to when attempting to place your feet back on solid ground. It is a force, a gravitational pull that rights you again after you’ve toppled. It is that house from childhood memories, slips of laughter rustling in the deadened leaves of the past. A smell that squeezes your heart gently, reminding you of what is good in you - those things you’ve stuffed down and slathered in negativity. It has power - power to dry your tears, pick up your pieces and prepare for the next wave. They never stop crashing, the sands never stop retreating under their power - but you can SEE what’s coming next. And knowing? Is half the battle.

I hope, one day, that my children see me as their lighthouse. I cannot fool myself and claim that I will absolutely always know when they’ve retreated. I cannot expect that in those darkest moments they will allow me to reach out to them and provide them with a safe place to feel. But I hope, that even in their bleakest moments, they’ll see me - and my light - and know that they are grounded.

by Double Agent Girl

Photo graciously provided by (nz)dave, through a Creative Commons license, some rights reserved