SHE SPEAKS . . .

She faces a long night ahead. Already, the clock strikes two o'clock in the morning, and she should be tired and abed by now. She should know better than to think that avoidance is the answer. The clock will tick time past, whether or not she's staring at it, whether or not she resolutely refuses to climb into a cold bed, whether or not she sleeps in peace, whether or not she sits perturbed and mulls, whether or not there is hope for better. Tomorrow will arrive with a vengeance and with mocking sunshine and a bracing breeze, with no guarantees of goodness or laughter, of friendship or safety, of easier days or more understanding nights. She really should know better.

But she tries to face down the clock anyway. She fights the pull of the bed. She resists common sense and compassion and pleas for trust. She denies the wiser urge to let go, grow up, forgive and forget, accept grace and love proffered so freely and undeservedly. The dull ache behind her eyes and the burdens in her heart are weights she won't relinquish, not just yet. She will hold onto them for as long as she can, though it drive her to eschew food, sleep, friendship, another human's touch, because for now, she has nothing else to grip. To go to sleep, to lose control, to welcome refreshment, to unclench her fists, would be to ease that hold on those weights; to do so means another softening of her heart, another baring of her soul, another humbling offer of herself, another resting herself and all that she is in the hands of those who may or may not be able to -- may or may not want to -- accept the responsibility that accompanies her.

Still, she can't help but wonder, as she lifts her clenched chin from her chest, as she wipes away stale and overused tears: what would it feel like to be refreshed? What would it feel like to trust again? What would it feel like to accept the light touch of grace upon her forehead, not unlike a protective kiss? What would it feel like to not carry weights around in self-indulgent and wasteful martyrdom? What would it feel like to rest in another's safety? What would it feel like to commit to the unknown, to dive headlong and eyes wide open into what once was good and can be made good once more? What would it feel like to work hard for healthfulness and reap the benefits of her work by achieving that perfect balance of love and harmony and comfort and honesty? What would it feel like to be at ease again?

The temptation is too strong. Her wonderments are too appealing. The promises of better days, of deeper love, of meaningful devotion, of family ties, ring loudly in her ears, ricocheting around a brain that is only just beginning to reshape itself after days' worth of meltdown and chaos. The seeds of hope and optimism, planted in the midst of the utmost turmoil, are growing faster than expected, though they lack water and light and nutrition, for she won't feed them, not just yet. But they grow anyway, and she is humbled. Hope is not up to her, tomorrow is not up to her, the strange workings of this world and the beloved people in it are not up to her. And the seeds continue to push down roots in her newly-softening heart and will grow while she's not looking.

So she trudges to the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her sullen face. She examines herself in the mirror: is she still attractive... is she still in one piece... will they be able to see into her scarred eyes and see her bruised heart? Hard to tell, yet. She changes into her sleep clothes and catches glimpses of herself, of her body, in the mirror again. She looks into her own eyes and ventures: is she still her... is she at peace... is she willing to be at peace... is she still capable of being her and all that she was... is she able to accept a new day, a new effort, a new offer of love? Hard to tell, yet. She climbs into bed, lays her head on the chilled but welcoming pillows, lets the weight of the comforter trap her and hold her down. Her eyes are still open, though it is dark. She is not looking at or for anything; she is just stubborn. But soon, predictably, she succumbs as she always should have, as she knew was right.

And in succumbing, she will be restored.