contact with the past

I contacted someone from my past this week. Huge leap/gamble. I didn’t know what the implications could mean for her or for me. It all related back then to the attack. How do you even begin a monologue to that? Oh hey remember me? Back when that happened?

But there were things I wanted to know and I also wanted to, I don’t know build a bridge, open lines of communication, learn something. But not to her detriment. There’s no guidelines for this, no advice getting for this. I just went from the heart.

I wrote my message I found via good ole Facebook. I had a bath, accidentally made it too hot and then felt terribly panicky. Suffocated. Unable to breathe. What had I done? What if she didn’t answer? Would that be worse? What if she was mean? What if I caused her damage? Where is she in her point of life? The bath steam filled the room despite the insistence of my ever having the door open (residual effect of trauma). The heat was stifling, my head felt full of anxiety, sadness, worry, doubt, conflict, anger with myself, possible outcomes and I felt suddenly very vulnerable. Very small and very alone. At this point I needed to be scooped out of the bath, reassured and comforted. But the words never came. The request was lost. My husband lay watching Breaking Bad on the bed, but he could have been in a hotel down the road. There was no one that could understand my plight and hear my thoughts at that precise moment.

I managed to clamber out of the bath. Swallowed a diazapam amongst shallow desperate breaths. My husband asked if I was ok. I explained the water was too hot and I just felt stressed about the message. His logical side came in with the possibilities. But I didn’t need the strategic breakdown. I just needed the fan, the drug to take effect and then my body would balance again.

The next morning there was no reply. Due to the time difference I had hoped for something overnight. I was disappointed but not surprised. I went about the usual routine getting the kids ready etc.

As I drove them to school the message flashed up from her on my phone. She had replied. I wanted to continue the drive, drop the kids off, but my fear was that some technical glitch might occur and the message might disappear forever and I would never see those words. Regardless if they were good or bad. My phone sat in its cradle, lit up, goading me. I had to pull over.

The message was humbling, friendly, sweet and sad. Honest and sincere. Were the kids quiet for a moment or had I zoned out completely?

I went to drive on but the kids became so loud and argumentative and the next minute my eldest asked if we were meant to be going this way. I had taken I wrong turn. I called my husband hoping to feel grounded to discuss the response but frankly we could have discussed tyre pressure at that point. I couldn’t hear him and his voice became another distraction and irritation. 

I dropped the girls off first and then my son who has his little ways when getting organised before getting out of the car. I put all of my energy into not being impatient.

Unfortunately I’d even brought the dog too! I’d intended to walk him after drop off. I decided a quick walk might clear my head and keep him happy. But the message, her words, my thoughts, my possible response kept whirring in my mind. And I felt myself getting annoyed at my dog for keeping me out!

At home, I wrote my response. Again from the heart. Hoping that being raw and honest could be the only way forward.

I can’t begin to articulate the feelings I’ve experienced. Some of them relate to the things I learnt in her message, like my sense of anger at the the police, and feeling of being let down, I feel guilt for bringing old things back up for her, I feel sad about everything, I feel powerless, anxious, I’m tired, my nights are fraught with bad dreams and worry about what’s transpiring overseas. Things trigger me more so than normal. I take extra precautions instinctively now to feel safer, I feel restless, listless. I feel ashamed of my history. I work hard to keep my kids away from all of this, but when their behaviour changes or their sleep changes I worry it’s my fault. 

I’m alone with this. No one gets it. I smile on the outside. When I’m grumpy people seem surprised. I want to escape but I fear being isolated. 

I don’t feel the creeping tentacles of depression, although I suppose someone might objectively say I’m fitting the patterns. 

But no one can say how I’m supposed to deal with all of this. No one can tell me how I’m supposed to feel. And no one knows. I can’t find comfort and I can’t find resolution. I can only keep going for the sake of everyone and keep my inner most thoughts tumbling away or what can be expressed written on here. 

This tumour is growing. It’s painful, hideous, unbearable and I feel like it’s slowly killing me. I can’t run from it and I’m forcing myself to face more pieces of it over smaller proximities of time. 

I’ve been alone for most of my life, and I have to say at this point, I don’t think I’ve ever felt lonelier.

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