My heart feels scooped out, empty from the sharp talons of time. My mind stays on lockdown – like a car journey arriving at the destination but forgetting the entire journey. I’m in survival mode.
Conversations have lost context, tone and I’m unable to engage to retain any information.
Anniversary month. Again, the date my mind has chosen to withhold, but I could access the information, the paperwork, the tangible file of all the memories. But I won’t. Probably. Maybe.
I could be brushing my teeth, closing a window, any mundane chore. Walking from one room to another, and suddenly my mind will spew a memory, full of intense recognition, with the power to leave me briefly disorientated and think for a moment I’m 14 again. I’ll be in that room, or in that waiting room at the clinic. Feeling small, feeling worthless, an animal trapped in a cage. Fear, pain, confusion, loneliness all wrapping tentacles around me – smothering me.
I can’t express how I feel at the moment to anyone. Mostly because I’m rarely sure myself.
My safety is in isolation. I don’t want to be around people. I don’t want to hear people. I don’t want to be forced to continue normally, I’m afraid of those memories. And people take energy. They want responses, exchanges and they want me to be normal. But I’m far from normal at the moment. I just want the sanctuary of my space. My solitude, my company as alone is how I’m used to being, to surviving this. So I don’t want anyone around me invading my space, making me feel that I should be normal.
So many years now. But the memory is a fresh wound. I pretend it’s not there to cope. To stop the pain from becoming my overwhelming consumption. But my nights are twisted nightmares, the days I’m exhausted and I’m resentful of having to get up. Face another day. Do another load of laundry, tidy the house, feed the animals, talk. I don’t want any of the present or the past. I just want to get by. But I don’t want to move. I don’t want to care about anything. I don’t want to feel or think.
Id fed up of experiencing this time over. I’m angry that I’m still powerless. No closure.
But I endure this period, as I endure each one. With the sense that I can survive this, if I just take a day at a time.
No one can help me, I choose not to seek support. I’m tired and ill rest.
Time is irrelevant to me. Days blur into each other. I do what I can to get by. I’m the only keeper of my soul, my secrets, my fears, my hidden tears.
I only wish physically I could temporarily disappear as my mind does.