Queens Don't Die, They Finish

There is nothing more wondrous than regaining one's faculties after a mentally disturbing life-jolt. Ahhh... 

There is nothing worst, however, than being pushed down and discarded as if you're nothing at all; as if your presence is no longer desired, and your services are no longer preferred. Being swapped out for something better can be, and is often, the lowest point of a relationship (be it work or personal), and is a death threat to any possibility of restoration. What happened to the accomplishments, the standards you once lived by? What happened to the queenly aura that lured feeble ones in for just a touch of your strength?

Gray women and queens whose lives have been abruptly halted, suffer mental trauma and loss of respect that most don't fully recover from. Not because it's impossible, but because the work to get back up, and restore your placement, is honestly disgustingly difficult. Men, on the other hand, tend to reclaim their store a lot easier, faster; White men, foreign men, Black American men - in that order - just have an easier time of it compared to women. That is not to say that they don't suffer mental anguish after trauma, too. They just tend to get past it a whole lot quicker as they work, while crazy, with a fair amount of proficiency! https://www.bridgestorecovery.com/about-us/ 

***

Seriously, can you imagine the queen of England being stripped of her riches, her authority, her regalia, and the kingdoms over which she reigns, and tossed out on her keister at midnight without her glasses and hearing aid, only to land in a far different land than any she's known before? She'd be sniffed out like Lemuel Gulliver was by a bunch of Lilliputians when he landed among them after being shipwrecked in Lilliput! Surely, you remember the very old classic, Gulliver's Travels, by Jonathan Swift. This fictitious character was caught by a surpris horrific journey that landed him in one strange culture after the other, after experiencing back-to-back life-mishaps. Through it all, he longed to be home with his family instead. Journeying among lands you can't identify with strikes your curiosity, but it can also strike you dumb; strange languages are as interesting as they are confusing, even frightening, when you're ill-equipped.

Okay, you're among commoners who have heard of you and watched you from afar for decades. Now here you are at their feet, on their turf, walking and existing alongside them. They don't understand your true identity because - due to exposure - you, too, have taken on a common appeal. So, what do they do with you? They clump you in with them and utilize your fear to leverage their own standards upon you. Will you let them, or are you too tired from the journey to care?

You may be naked on the outside, but the queen lives on, inside. Your hair may be disheveled and your lipstick faded, but you are still an honorable woman who stands firm within. Even if you've lost your signature scent, and the royals can no longer detect your presence, you persist. Others no longer have an assurance about you; they have doubts about your true essence; they've heard about your ejection, they've seen your nakedness, but your assignment is not up. It's still upon you, you're just in a far distant land where commoners are marveling because they sense something special about you, and don't know what to do with you. Nonetheless, you must work while they gawk. You still think like a queen who rules. You can't help that. But, unfortunately, you've taken on the commoner's scent. You've taken on their coif, too, since you no longer bear a crown. Their diet is now your diet - how else will you eat? You've become sick. Shaken. You must call on the strength that never left you in order to build a new kingdom among the commonplace; a kingdom that has awaited your wise abilities. It was willing to receive you by any means. They relished your arrival.

So, here you are now in jeans, and a bedazzled tee, ready to dispense upon them the richness made gentler with humility. You're a new improved queen minus a castle, minus a throne, minus the scent of the pure essence of roses once warmed by your silver temples that thumped out migraines on your journey to being restored. You're simply clean with a scent of calm and repose.

Know this... you cannot kill a queen. You cannot trade her off, either. A queen dies away when she's finished her course. 

She may no longer look like a traditional queen, or smell like one, either. Her smile may be chapped and her lips parched, but it remains colored in a fetching hue. Regardless, her assignment lives on, as does she. Her jolting journey would have killed a common woman. The mere fact that she walks on, upright, says it all. The palace may have ejected her, the nobles may have decided upon a new queen, but you can't discard one queen for another because queens don't die, they finish.

Gulliver's Travels by Jonathan Swift (October 1726)

Nhat Crawford, author
Single For The First Time


Nhatcrawford@gmail.com