I love you.
I view the experience in an out of body manner even now, just as I did then.
What sticks the most is his smile. Me in tears, and him smiling. I can see his smile sometimes when I close my eyes. His teeth gleaming, his breath like garlic. From his smile, I see his eyes. They glitter, a cross between brown and hazel and something that I can’t identify. The gleam in his eyes is joy. He found happiness in my tears, somehow. I didn’t understand that. I still don’t. I don’t get how people can find happiness in the pain of others when I’m so sensitive I will cry at commercials.
There was a “Private Practice” episode where one of the doctors was raped in her office. I both wanted to watch it and didn’t want to watch it at the same time. I felt connected to the character, Charlotte. I didn’t want to look at her, but I couldn’t look away either. When she fell silent and stopped fighting her attacker, a single tear trickled down my cheek. Because I got it. I understood. That moment when she stopped believing.
Snap. Close. Cold. The feeling of metal. Something hard.
After surviving a serious physical injury, trauma may show up in a variety of ways—from disturbances with normal eating and sleeping to general dysfunction. On the emotional side, people who experience shock trauma may experience depression, despair, panic attacks, memory loss, and a host of other issues. While the body may heal after shock trauma, if nothing is done about the emotional side of the ordeal, other problems may develop. The patient may believe they are alone.
Licking. Knife. The release of blood. So much. Ice. Black.
I was driving down the road on my way to teach one night, and I saw a deer crossing the road. It went right in front of my car, and it turned to see me coming for it. It froze. I think it froze because it believed there was no escape. It forgot there was another side to the road, a way to get away. It believed that it was going to die.
One. Two. Three. Four. Ninety nine..One hundred…Five hundred. Open.
There is a room inside my head. In that room, the walls are black. There are no doors or windows. Only I can enter. Only I can leave. In the middle of the room, there is a chair. The chair is black, wooden. It has no cushions. It is plain, just like the room. Which is the size of my closet. That isn’t a bad thing; it is perfect for me, and it is just what I need. It’s safe.
Sometimes, when I’m really bothered about it, I can feel the weight of it around me as if it just happened yesterday. I think about things and I process them through that veil, at their base level. It is harder for me on those days, the days I am worried. Even though it was some time ago, I am worried. It still affects me, while the effects on him are minimal. That doesn’t seem fair. My brain is a cesspool of gunk. Of it. Him. Most of the time I am fine. But I don’t trust myself. I don’t see the me that other people see. I don’t always believe. I wonder if he took that from me. If it’s gone. Forever.
Love. You. Love.
Don’t come back.
Someone told me that I enjoy new experiences. That really struck me, because it’s true. I enjoy new experiences, yes, but they scare me. They scare me a LOT. I don’t believe in my ability to handle every day. I don’t give myself a break. I get very angry when I am okay one second and not the next. I want to be okay all the time. I worry that the new things are overwhelming. That I will fall. Fail.
I have led a double life, a difference between my body and soul. I carry myself differently because of the past, because of that day. I hide myself from the world. There are many things I can’t talk about, many things that are folded into other things and disguised and cleverly hidden. I put my past in the light, but also in the shade. I will always be in the shade.
And as a result, there will always be times when I don’t believe.