The large wooden doors open into the center of the old, historic castle. The round room is breathtakingly beautiful. The stone walls and pillars exude majesty. Against the far wall are steps that lead to a platform. Skylights allow the sunlight to pierce through and shine on the medieval armor that stands there. The light dances on the walls as it is reflected off of the glistening metal. There is a black onyx plaque next to the armor. The inscription tells of the knight that wears this armor. It tells of the many battles fought and the countless sacrifices made. It tells of the strength, honor, and courage of the knight. In the hushed silence though, a gentle rustling is heard. Drawing closer to the knight’s armor, it becomes obvious that something is hiding deep inside. The cautious lifting of the visor allows the source of the sound to be discovered. Crouching down deep inside the regal armor is a small child. She clings to a ragged blankie and looks up with scared, timid eyes. Her dirty cheeks are streaked with dried tears. This is no intruder, though. This frightened, shivering little girl is the revered knight. The warrior is a child.
This is the image that is seared into my mind. I am weary. I am weary of fighting and doing what is right. I am weary of being told how strong I am and how I am doing exactly what is best for my family. I am weary of this journey. I am weary of the tremendous weight of this armor. From the outside it may seem like I am brave and determined and noble. But here, deep inside this armor, is a tired little girl that feels herself crumbling. The weakness is overwhelming any strength that remains and I am left holding tight to a ragged old blankie trying to convince myself that somehow I can still go on. Even now though, I know that I cannot. I have stretched myself much too far and I see the ropes beginning to fray. I have given up trying to care for myself, yet I fight to keep the armor shined so I can resemble some sort of strength and confidence for my children. However, I am not sleeping. I am not taking my medications. I am not praying. I only crack my Bible just enough to try to prevent my husband from fully realizing my spiritual state. I am avoiding church at all costs as I come up with excuse after excuse why I cannot attend. I find myself binge-watching old shows on Netflix as I desperately try to distract myself from the sobs racking my soul. I know what is happening. I understand that I am being beaten down and defeated. I have not the strength to stand, much less press on towards the goal. As I lay in bed I contemplate gently waking my husband and revealing my bloody and broken heart. Somehow that seems so selfish. So instead I stare at this screen with burning eyes and disclose the secrets I keep locked inside. I cannot burden anyone else with my scars, so I take what energy I still have and shine my armor before carefully crawling back inside to hide.
Mom Musings 