Fractured into gaps, mined
between the
lines that suggest reality here, night seas
there, fingernails slice
half moons into
echo chamber walls, seized in wait as
notes (or
carved precious keys to the past)
stop falling,
cast like
shards, petals scattered
before a bride,
down each step
until
I fall.
Who are what are you fighting?
How does conflict make you feel?
When does resistance serve you well?
…in which I break at even the lightest touch, it seems. The child is still leading, and I’m following closely. And the people whose love I’m finally allowing myself (her too) to receive… they’re right behind. She keeps telling me what she needs, and I keep doing everything in my power to give it to her. When I can’t, I panic on behalf of both of us. But usually I’m still there, moderating my own reactions.
Whatever the episode was, a dissociative feral terror that wasn’t a flashback, not exactly… but I can’t perform it away. I can’t pretend anymore that the labels don’t apply. Can’t afford to keep humoring the distortion that says it was all fine and the only thing wrong is me. Can’t keep resisting the idea that I have no right to it, that I’d be laughed out of the office of someone who treats *real* trauma.
There are four weeks left in this year, this phase of this work. Four more Sunday mornings spent unearthing myself. Four more words for this. After that… well, I’m already researching practitioners with the help of the ones I’ve already got. If I never see another doctor again it’d be fine by me. Except that I’m not. “Fine” does not apply to any of this.
Part of me wants to take the running document I’ve worked in all year, print it, hand it over along with the HIPAA forms and copay. Here’s my medical history, doc. You take it from here.