Scribblings of Fiordelise Foscari

[NeedForGreed]

Written in doctor's chickenscratch.

I have ever encouraged my own patients, processing trauma and undergoing physical therapy, to keep journals. To express their thoughts and commit them to paper as a method of healing. I have to laugh at myself a little; I have never done this myself. I can see perfectly clearly the benefits to well-being as a doctor. And yet, trying to practice myself only makes me feel self-indulgent, vain, and silly.

But times are strange, and I have been told that "journaling" is likely a requirement of my desired path. So I will try this habit.

Where to begin? 

Bitterness and resentment are storms on the horizon. I can see the shadow they cast and wonder if it will take root in my own heart. I must not let it. Santina, save me, but it is hard sometimes. 

The anniversary of when Mother left arrives soon, and so my thoughts linger on her and the sickness she left me.

I remember how mother grew quiet during arguments and let her mind and heart slip away to some other place. How her warmth faded each year, slowly at first, imperceptibly - then by the end, she was pale and thin and already gone. I blame her choice on the plague and what it took from my family, but that was not really it, was it? The joy in her was already gone before the Crimson Death knocked on our door. 

It is hard to describe this quiet rot. It is like a shadow, a wolf just over your shoulder. Quicksand beneath your feet, a pit which pulls you in. Oblivion and peace. You are worthless, it whispers. I was just a girl - I did not understand why you were crying, Mother, what had overwhelmed you so and left you weeping on the floor. Now I understand what slowly crushed your spirit. Would that I could wrap my arms around you now, tell you how much you matter. How much I love you, how perfect you are.

I would have urged you not to give in had I understood then what I understood now. But you did give in and left me to face those same demons alone.

Sister-Priest Francesca told me it was something of a blessing, once, that I felt that same pull. And in truth, she is right: how meaningless is it to preach hope if one is not tempted by the rope? How empty is it to urge compassion if you have never been hurt? That ever-present quicksand is a gift, then - the bruised heart grows. 

Does that count if the heart bruises itself?

Not sure.

Self-worth. A funny little thing.

A step towards Ascension, towards harmony, with the Dome. Yet a step away from blind obedience, a step away from meek acceptance. 

I remember how little I had when I first came to this place. How hard Dante, Manos, Aeronwy, so many others helped me out of that quicksand. Whether they knew it or not. Their kindness, a rope thrown to a drowning soul.

I am not worthless because I have a purpose. Because Santina has a job for me, and I do it. I heal. I fight disease and plague. On rare occasions, I convince someone to be a little kind. On many occasions, I make things worse. When those strange grinning stars threatened to swallow me up, when my faith was first tested, what scared me most of all was the idea that this was all for nothing. That I did not, in fact, have a purpose to make me something more than worthless.

The more I learn about the stars of the Astral and Sidereal, the more I realize I am no longer afraid. It struck me this morning, as I greeted the morning stars. I have purpose and place among them, among these sands, worth of my own making. You have my love, devotion, and endless work, Mercystar, but no longer because I cling to you for fear of losing the worth and love you grant.

But because this is who I am.  

Because I choose to. Because in seeing my own worth, I have found an even greater appreciation for your grace. My devotion is no longer born from desperation and self-loathing. Santina, I give myself to you not because I need you to define me or to fill an empty vessel. But because I burn with love for you and for our work. My faith is stronger than it has ever been, my heart bruised but beating fast. My worth is my own, and I dedicate it to you. Whatever horrors and shocks remain out there among the stars - none of it can change that.

That dark wolf, the quicksand - they will never really be gone. I cannot defeat them. Instead, I see you, my mother's gift. You are neither friend nor foe, but a part of me. You are the shadow that defines my light, the bruise that hones my heart. I see you, and I accept you.

[NeedForGreed]

I keep trying.

Somehow, every effort I make to be kind, to build a bridge or simply not be unpleasant, is thrown back in my face.

Offered help to repair their broken shrine - venom. Wish them well - venom. And so on.

How do you get to a point where you see everything as an evil plot? Where you hate strangers more than you love your own people? Aurelio, with his pearl-clutching and hatred all because I wanted to build a hospital.

What a disappointment that man was. How often it is those who preen their own virtues, do so little for others. Where is the help tending to the sick, and the poor?

I must not let their hatred get to me. I must not let it make me the monster and the demon they believe I am.

I would rather die.