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 bury 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 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