The corridor was dark. My eyes tried frantically to adjust – they failed. What seemed like a heavy fog clouded my range of vision. My body ached and my legs drug along. I wasn’t wearing shoes. Where were they? I peered down in the direction of my feet but my sight was interrupted by something far more disturbing. My hands, bruised and grimy, were cuffed together with large chains. I tried to pull them apart as fear set in but I had no strength. I was moving forward but not by my own doing. It was at that very moment that I realized I wasn’t alone in this hallway.
Someone, perhaps something held a tight grip around my right arm as it pushed me forward. With each gliding step down the long narrow walkway, its grip seemed to become tighter and more demanding. Up ahead a saw what seemed to be a light at the end of this musky tunnel but it brought me no relief. The white glow coming from the end of all I could see was haunting and something deep inside told me that I didn’t want to find what the source of light was – yet I knew I would.
As I was pushed along further, the glow began to identify my surroundings. I noticed rooms, both to my left and right. The rooms had walls of tall individual bars stretching from the top of the ceiling to the dirty damp floor that I nearly slipped on as my gaze stuck a bit too long at one of the darkened spaces. I felt tears and attempted to wipe them away, the chains wouldn’t allow me. My mind was suddenly blistered with hundreds of questions.
Why was I shackled? What was I guilty of? Why wasn’t I allowed a trial? Who convicted me? Where was everyone that I knew? Who was pushing me into this endless pit? How long was I going to be here? How come the only sound I heard was the heart shattering echo of silence? Where was I being forced to? No one answered. To be honest, no one ever has.
I finally made my way to the last room. The same tall bars were present, only divided by a door made from the same iron. The hands pushed me and I heard the door slam behind me. It sent chills over my body that repeated their travels up and down my spine each time the loud metal clank echoed into my new home. The room was cold and empty aside one metal chair that sat facing the furthest wall. My instincts caused me to walk towards it and sit down. The faint glow of light that seemed so bright before flickered and went out.
I sat there for what could have been hours – perhaps days? Weeks? Was it months? I had a few visitors. They walked up as timidly as I had the day this all began and looked into my prison. They didn’t say much. They didn’t seem to know what to say. I only was able to cry. Sometimes someone would be brave enough to step into the room with me. Now that I think about it I don’t remember someone unlocking the door and letting them in. They stayed for a few moments and were gone as quick as they had arrived.
Some time later, as I sat in the metal chair, I looked down at my hands. I had gotten so used to the heavy chains that kept them, I had made very little effort to remove them. My eyes studied the seemingly unbreakable bond and then something amazing happened. I gently pulled my arms in opposite directions and to my surprise, the chains unlocked and fell to the cement floor. I felt myself panic and reach for them. I had ironically found some comfort, maybe even safety in having the locked steel around my hands. My fingers reached for them, then I stopped. It was okay. I stood up, still staring at the clump of restraint and took a step away. Doubt, fear and confusion rushed over my newly found exemption.
I studied my wrist. The remains of scratches, scars and dried blood brought tears to my eyes. I had been held back for so long, I wasn’t sure if I could ever use my hands the same way again. I turned toward the iron door and sobbed. I realized my freedom, much like my understanding, was still very limited. I leaned my head against the door and my heart nearly stopped when the weight of my body caused it to swing open. The creaking sound was loud. I was sure someone would hear and quickly cut off the little bit of hope that was somehow rising up inside of me.
I stood there. A statue. I didn’t even breathe. I wanted to walk out of my own prison but I was scared of what was on the other side. More time past. No one came. No one slammed the door shut. No other sound filled the air besides my gentle sobs. I finally took a step. I was now standing outside of the room. I was free.
Understanding that my own prison was formed from the grief that overcame everything I was the day I buried my little girl is still something I have very little handle on. In fact, I sometimes volunteer myself and walk back into the room, closing the door behind me. I take the cuffs off the floor, place them on my wrist and sit in the chair. Sometimes I need to be back there. Sometimes I stay to long. Sometimes people go in with me. Sometimes I’m completely alone. Every time, I remember as if it was just yesterday.
My own prison. It will always be there. I have such joy, however fleeting, when I am outside those walls, but such sorrow that pulls on my heart when I revisit. At this point in my grief journey, I have realized that I need both situations in my life. Have you identified your own prison? What has been your experience?
{Your Thoughts}