The final door

The final door is not an ending but a beginning. It is the door which we try to keep closed. Behind which lies the wasteland and the land of monsters. It is the return to the beginning and to all the pain and hurt that we have tried to keep ourselves from holding and owning. When we can finally open that door and step into the reality of ourselves then we can begin to heal. It isn’t easy. Our skin will blister, our mind may feel as though it will crack into a thousand pieces, but it is necessary to be within the furnace and the forge to see what we can truly become.

For years I have hidden from myself laying thin glass existences over the pain and the hurt. In doing so I have chosen to tell my story in different ways where I can meet the world on its level and be deemed acceptable. But each time the glass cracks and the door gapes open, and I must start again. It is the nature of the gift I was given and I will not call it my curse any more. The time has come to step through that final door and to begin again with what I was given not what I wished I had.

Before me I see wastelands. Tall mountains of filth that were piled in burning with sulfurous smoke. These are the hills of my birth, not green clad and blue skies but the landscape of polluted ideologies which taught me I was never good enough and taught me that the world was sin and to be avoided. There in the center lays the crown of twisted metal I was meant to wear. The crown of those who seek to be martyrs to an idea and burn the world in achieving their goal. I would have done it too had I not been saved from myself by finding I was more sinful than the world I was asked to condemn.

There the tent where I was held and had pictures painted of flesh melting from bone, families dying, torture, disease, death, all seared into my childish mind. I do not dream for fear of seeing all those visions once again. But still I hear the voices of my tormentors speaking with spit flecks lips of how there is no hope just waiting for an end to come and how hope only came from being good enough. Such is the demand placed on all who would heal from what others in their righteousness chose to lay upon small children’s minds.

This is my wasteland. This the landscape I find through the final door. One that through years now lost I have watched twist and in the twisting mutilated me. I shall never know a beautiful first kiss, that was denied me by the being who I was told I was. No teenage years and college, not young adult growing and exploring. I was gray at eighteen and never knew a youth. Just the fight to find a way to love where I was good enough. A place where I could be whole and not the fracture, beastial creature I became.

So I step now through the final door. I close it behind me and stand feeling the heat of who and what I was, who I created to contain the truth, burning away with the last hopes that things were different. Now I must stand in cess of other peoples madness. Seeing at last there was no truth and seeing all the guilt that I have made because of it. That I am guilty that I have no doubt. The fact that others st me on this path is truth but I must own my part. There never will be justice for the little boy sacrificed and smashed. The man must learn to stand and hold the pain but in reality and choose now not to see through gentler filters. So I stand in my own truth, take back the name I was cursed to carry and finding balance plant seeds within the sewage.

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