You see us every day. We’ve disguised ourselves as the invisible glue that holds your day together, the hand you never feel that stops you from stepping in front of the hurtling train of foolishness. We are the ones that gave our own power away little by little, so that you could feel like you had more, or were more, than you’d earned for yourself.

And it was so unnecessary.

We allowed ourselves to be tricked and trained into believing that the giving of life that we were empowered with, was a triviality that the world could do without. We became secondary to everyone, everything, and we turned ourselves into martyrs, saints, and victims.

We dishonored ourselves by allowing others to do so.

We understand our power. You are stronger. You were the provider back in the day. You held the wolves at bay, and protected us from harm. Our power was, and is, different and no less critical. You preserved and protected life.

We made it worth it.

Neither of us exist at maximum potential without the other. It’s two halves of a whole as was meant to be. It was supposed to be a beautiful balance of power and grace. Strength and beauty. Courage and joy. But somewhere back in the day, Kings became little frightened boys, and the Queens laid down their crowns to become servants.

The Kingdom crumbled into chaos.

We look for strength now and find arrogance. We seek safety and find negligence and abuse. We look for a King to rule with us and find only a dictator or a prison guard. You look for respect and honor, and there is little to be found. There are men of strength and awareness out there, but not enough. We’ve allowed all that we were meant to be to deteriorate into the societal muck of devaluation.

The God and Goddess have brought themselves to ruin.

Where is our love for each other? Where is the high esteem held for each other? Where is the wisdom of bending down to pick up what is missing and hand it to the other with love, respect and gratitude?

Equal in value is not identical in identity.

Without the lost gifts of King and Queen, male and female, strength and beauty, the world founders in a sea of pathetic mediocrity that flat out makes it hard to get out of bed in the morning. Where are the Gods and Goddesses? Aren’t we ready to put on our crowns of glory and pick up the scepter of power that allows us to add life to our lives? Don’t we want to see men rise up that truly are Men, and rise up ourselves as the Women who inspire the world to survive the wars of foolishness?

We are legion, we are lost, and we must save each other.

Or live in the gray ghost life of what could have been…god forbid this be so.

There are some types of injuries that don’t show on the outside. They bleed inside, where no one sees, in an endless agonizing trickle of despair. The despair is multiplied by the knowledge that since no one can see, nothing can be proven, and therefore no one can help. No one knows you need help.

You don’t even admit you do.

It began so subtly that you barely noticed something was off. A look of distaste when you laughed unreservedly, or your stories entertained people too totally, or you drew too much attention away from him with your absolute joy in the moment.

He wasn’t strong enough to love you, so he tore you down.

Your tears were a pathetic weakness, your need for companionship clingy and excessive, your attempts to repair and rebuild, ridiculous and unnecessary. You needed to get a life of your own and quit expecting him to be there for you when he had other shit to do. Jesus Christ, give him a break already.

He looks at you with cold, uncaring eyes as you tell him you expected a partner, a companion, a lover, a friend. You try to reach the mind of someone who will only give what he must to not look badly to the public eye. When he does something nice for you? It’s for show. He would look like a total asshole if he didn’t.

He’s a narcissistic manipulator.

After years of this, it’s not just your spine that becomes steel. Your heart solidifies, your dreams become the stones you step on to make it through the days, and the only thing left that you hope for is to be left alone. Your desire becomes distaste, your future something you cannot bear to think about or you’ll go mad.

The heart of you is locked up tight against wounding…and wonder.

You save yourself by sealing yourself off from any chance of harm or happiness, rapture or ridicule, desire or desperation. You turn yourself into the perfect female machine that cannot be touched or tormented. You not only don’t need him anymore, but you absolutely don’t want him.

Yet, here you are.

What will it take for you to see your beauty to the world? What will it take to acknowledge your worth, and defend it from slander? To actually see and accept that his weaknesses and injuries are not yours to pay for, or carry every day? That he has the power to choose his own life…

But he cannot choose yours?

What will it take for you to wake up, stand up, face off, and walk away? How many invisible hits will it take? How many years of isolation? How many times will you be destroyed enough to think that if he just drew blood you could turn to someone for help? Walk away, my beloved sister…

Walk .Away.

He didn’t know it would be the last time she would walk in after work, so as usual he just wanted to know what was for supper. It didn’t cross his mind, as he stared at the TV, barely answering her questions about his day, that it would be the last time she would be there for him to ignore.

He would no longer have to remember her birthday, or hold her when she was sad, or do something special for her once or twice a year… he never had before anyway, and there would be no more chances.

It would be the last time she stood there, shaking, trying to create something that would never exist, the last time he could put his war face on and turn his back on her in disgust and arrogance.  When he answered his phone and spoke to a friend, it was the last time he’d hurt her by giving them the kindness that would disappear at call’s end.

“Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.” ~ Anais Nin

Sometimes we don’t get one more chance.

When she put his plate in front of him for dinner, his eyes never leaving the TV, he had no idea he would soon lose his cook, errand-runner, caretaker, and captive audience for his fits of anger. The making love, or the holding, or the morning smiles that had faded away years ago…no more chance to breathe life into any of those.

He went into the garage and she stood quietly in the doorway, looking at all his toys and treasures that came before things that were needed, and he was clueless to the damage he’d done over the years. He couldn’t fathom a world where he would have to care for himself, do for himself. A world that had gone gray for her a long time ago. Drained of color, life, hope.

Tiny slices each time, little by little, until the draining of her  heart flowed like a relentless stream.

He came back in with his beer and sat back down, flipping through the channels, so she went into the other room to breathe in the silence of invisibility.

It was easier to take her insignificance to him, if she didn’t have to see it. It was easier to pretend that her life didn’t have the results of all her failed attempts to reach him suffocating her. She despised herself for all the times she should have left, and didn’t.

He gave a careless glance as she bent down to pick up his plate, and their eyes met for the first time that evening. His brows drew together in a look of irritation, and she slowly smiled at him for the last time. He didn’t know that…

But she did.

For the Love of Yoga. {#discoveryoga: Day Two) ~ Shelly Aspenson.