Bring me to your house
Tell me, “Sorry for the mess”
Hey, I don’t mind
You’re talking in your sleep
Out of time
Well you still make sense to me
Your mess is mine
~ Vance Joy

There are days our hearts are ripped open in our chest and we cannot stop the blood as it splashes on the pristine walls around us, and spills on the unsullied ground at our feet.

Sorry for the mess. Sorry for the mess. Sorry for the mess.

Days where chaos overwhelms us, sends us out of control, hurricane force winds that leave all within our path upturned, strewn, dazed in the wake of our madness.

Sorry for the mess. Sorry for the mess. Sorry for the mess.

Days we are an ocean; tumultuous, unpredictable, and the volume of our tears and the breath of our fury creates a tsunami and we smash down on those around us, flood them with our rage, with our temper, with our despair.

Sorry for the mess. Sorry for the mess. Sorry for the mess.

There is nothing pretty about our hearts when they are ripped open and exposed. There is nothing pretty about our pain and grief and suffering as it spills onto the ground. There is nothing pretty about our contorted faces as we lay curled on the floor soaked in a body of our own tears.

There is nothing pretty about abandonment, rejection, brokenness, jealousy, maliciousness, hate. Nothing pretty about being sliced open by ourselves, by others, by trauma, abuse, memories, nightmares, triggers, words as sharp as knife blades. There is nothing pretty about love—so often that which makes us bleed the most.

Sorry for the mess. Sorry for the mess. Sorry for the mess.

We are so ashamed of our mess. Terrified to let anyone see it. We wipe off the filth, the scum, the stains, and only show up for the world when we are clean and presentable. We are loathed to make others uncomfortable. To see them look away. To see them leave before they are asked to help clean the blood off the walls.

Before they are confronted with our humanity.

We’ve been told not to cry, to be quiet, not to make a scene, to hide our feelings.

We’ve been told not to make a mess.

Sorry for the mess. Sorry for the mess. Sorry for the mess.

But to be human is to be messy.

And the most beautiful gift we can give another is to step into their messiest place and say, “Hey, I don’t mind.” To look around at their mess, their chaos, the blood, and to make sense of them when they can no longer make sense of themselves. To sit with them in their mess, be comfortable in the disarray, wipe the blood from the walls and the shame from their hearts.

To embrace their humanity as our own.

To hear them say it:

Sorry for the mess. Sorry for the mess. Sorry for the mess.

And to love them enough to say, “Your mess is mine.”

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Author: Kathy Parker

Images: Clem Onojeghuo/Unsplash

Editor: Travis May