Spiral

I can’t concentrate. My chest swells and eyes tightly shut. Deep breaths don’t bring in enough oxygen. I’ve paced around my home, going into every room looking for something. I’m trying to read about a topic I didn’t know existed: Christian Feminist Theology.  The bells or chimes I hear in the background are making it impossible to read quietly. I write to concentrate my mind on the letters on the computer screen.

[I want to scream. I think I’m losing it.  Okay…focus.]

We tend to find ourselves, from time to time, in a place that is unrecognizable. We wonder what it all means. We wonder how we got there. We wonder which way to go. Weekly conversations with a counselor have revealed I am not set up correctly to understand boundaries and how they exist to protect me. When used properly setting boundaries between you and another person encourages growth. Love blossoms.

 

I learn by example and practice. Those that came before me creating the conditions for my existence did not spread a solid foundation. Rather, I stand on a cracky porous surface of life lessons collected from squeezed droplets of fear.

 

I’m all wrong in a world of right. Or, is it that I am all right in a world of wrong. Either way, I don’t fit in. I am socially awkward. I don’t understand certain nuances of behaviors and attitudes. I am told I am too literal and am difficult to relate to.

In the previous post, I told you something about myself. Not a secret, just something I omit. The days of last week turned out to contain a dulling experience. I filled my time by looking out a window and listening to silence. This week is full of promise and excitement, except I’m not at all prepared.

I attended a group session today for women that have experienced bad things in their lives. We talked a bit about the internet and that once you post, it’s there forever. Everything we share is backed up multiple times on various servers around the world and sometimes bought out by third companies who in turn save on their many servers. To fully remove a comment, post, blog, and certainly, photographs are nearly impossible.  So, what I revealed to you the last time can never actually be deleted. And, I’m almost OK with that because I have to live with the memory of my experience.

The internal disturbance of the effects of that night will only end when I die. My web log about my brush with death will exist to be reread until the entirety of the internet is switched off (another kind of death). So, just like internet search results get buried by new information, web pages, and data, so will my experience. It will slowly be buried by the years of life ahead. But, it will always be there.

I don’t have a quote to end with today and I already forgot the mantra I shared with you. Thank you for reading.

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Shut Down.

I am torn. I write these words after days of bed rest. I write these words to convince me of reality and not continue down the path of fantasy. I almost died. Last year. On my birthday. I stopped breathing at the hands of the man I love. I burry the experience so far back in my mind that it no longer seems real. I disconnected from it, so much so that when I summon the memory, feelings, and words he spoke my fingers turn white and hands get cold. When it’s brought up in therapy, I giggle in nervousness while saying, Oh, right. That happened.”

The literature I recently acquired from my city’s local women’s crisis center clarifies terminology. It isn’t choking, but strangulation that caused the bruising around my neck and petechia around my eyes.

[I have to pause here and step away from this for a minute. – 04:47pm]

Saturday, 6:34 PM – I’ve been unable to focus for over an hour. I paced. I looked out the window. I ordered pizza and a salad. I’m jittery, and my heart is pounding. I’m restless. Fuck. I lost almost 5 lbs. this week on account of all the sleeping and not eating. I’ve filled up on slices of bread and gulps of water and then back to bed. I spent a week enveloped in blankets and surrounded by pillows and finding a strange kind of lonely comfort.

[Sigh. I’ve lost focus and direction of my thoughts. This last paragraph was not part of my thought train when I started this post. I’m sorry. I’ve gotten lost.]

I’ll write more later.

I’ll leave you here, with a new mantra for the days to come: If I don’t tell you the truth, I lie to me.

Thank you for reading.

We must be willing to get rid of the life we’ve planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us. The old skin has to be shed before the new one can come.” – Joseph Campbell

 

Resigned, a poem

I would choose to be the one he favors over me.
The one he keeps going back to.
The one he refuses to let go.
Even after promising to do so. 
She meets a need I can’t. 
Even after we kiss and they don’t.
She still holds something of his that I don’t.

Screenshot 2017-06-20 at 11.52.00 PM