I’m a cerebral sort but sometimes, just sometimes I take the time to pay attention to what’s about me. Sometimes it’s safe enough but other times it’s like looking through a kaleidoscope at a world that’s both distant and too close. I look up from my desk at wantonly scattered tissues, piles of books and pill bottles. It’s an organised kind of chaos, befitting the organised chaos that exists in me. I think of particles crashing together out in not so empty space, picking up the curve of time and taking it along with them down some new trajectory.
Down. I follow along, a shadow well attached to the line.
I hear a woman across the street telling someone, in full strident operatic tones, just what a shit they are. That could be me, I think – the shit, not the woman. I don’t shout. Well, its been a long time since I screamed like that. Really let someone have it, that is…
The last time was a train platform where some guy stinking of weed and a 3 day bender tried it on. I think I hear myself in that woman’s tones, and my mind does backflips to the dirty pavement of the station.
“Bastard,” she yells. And it’s a word that bounces round the inside of my skull. A piercing word that almost falls from my lips. Quietly now. Don’t wake the sleeping dogs – They’ll bite.
But I’m staring into the half distance because that’s where all the action is, the place where feelings go, sucked into a whirlwind with the last best hope of my salvation. When did my breathing stop? What new sin is this, that fits between one instant and the next, that sits, cradled by memories of strained tea with no sympathy?
I remember now. There was a hand grabbing at my hair, another covering my mouth just as I’m yelling up at him. He’s all gangly limbs, and two wells for eyes backlit by hateful desire. That look undoes me quite.
I see bits of old posters and gum, and the flash of his arm clawing at me, a snake winding its way about my flesh, up out of some endless unknown. Some darkness that could not have been darkness then because all I tasted were his lips and my blood, his wasted pungent breath that acted like a slap across the face. All I knew was the concrete against my back, scraping my skin and sending my heart into my mouth, only to look down and see him all over me. How did that happen?
Then the words came tumbling out, all bitter rage mixed with senseless, total fear. And just as suddenly I felt how soft he was as I elbowed him in the guts. Moments like that you lose hold of hope, and grab onto something tougher. Something equally vicious inside you switches on, a kind of swift fury that drives your mind towards the edge of everything.
And if fury doesn’t cut you loose from gravity’s grip then nothing will. It’s one last chance, the speed of desperation driving you to act before all possibility of thought.
Then I breathe again, and suddenly I’m cold and tingling. My body is awake and memory is sleeping once again. Quietly going on with the day as if I hadn’t been interrupted at all. Is this strength or is it just that the enemy in my mind has finished for the day, gone home and left me to wonder when he’ll kick in the door again?
The enemy inside flips the pause button on, and I am made a skipping stone across an icy pond. There is nothing but the tattered remnants of peace, gathered together to form the glue with which to make something a little closer to life, a little less like a war on solitude.
If your chaos is organized, you’re one step ahead of me!
*carefully removes your elbow from my guts too*
Maybe paying more attention to the world outside our heads is good. In spite of at times being whirled off to the old ugly living inside. There is hope in time it will just be an ugly picture dangling on the wall of the mind, making us wonder why on earth anyone hung that thing there.
This part is very realateble…. “The enemy inside flips the pause button on, and I am made a skipping stone across an icy pond. There is nothing but the tattered remnants of peace, gathered together to form the glue with which to make something a little closer to life, a little less like a war on solitude.”…The enemy has been this way for me as I find myself in deep pain, yet but cn’t help think when the enemy will hit the play button anf start attacking again, these are the times that make the days hard to get through especially when the war start’s again on the solitude you fought so hard to have for a little bit of time in the midst of the chaos.. Thanks for another great blog.
Dear CK,
I believe that language helps, but only to a certain degree. I may have mentioned this before in your blog but I can’t remember if I did, and it bears repeating. One of the key researchers of “Expressive Writing” as in Writing to Heal, Dr. James. W. Pennebaker from the University of Texas at Austin, believes that writing helps but that dwelling on the negative may have a negative effect.
In his studies, he has people write about a traumatic incident in their lives for one hour (as I remember it) but only for four days. This experience makes them feel better. But, he also writes that there is a point where dwelling on negative feelings makes you feel worse.
I’ve found that to be true as well. When I write about depression and all that it’s taken from it, I feel much worse. When I write about wellness, I feel much better.
Susan
yes,
I’ve found that responsive “viciousness” within me as well. But at this point I don’t think of it as viciousness but as my birthright, the one I was methodically stripped of from birth because I was born female, not male.
I’ve never seen a female dog or lion or cat or bird who doesn’t defend herself or scare off unwelcome or threatening intruders at all costs. Only human women do that and we do it because it’s drilled out of us through thousands upon thousands of repetitions and acts of shaming. To me, that rising up of the ultimate, “No, you will NOT do this to me, not now not ever” is the inheritance that we have to reclaim as women.
I think even the enemy within has little chance of beating the power and force of your RIGHT to survive, your RIGHT to thrive, and your RIGHT to be well.
wily
Huh. For some reason, I really, really, really want to kick that douchebag’s ass.
CK,
I can so understand that feeling of the enemy on pause just waiting to get you again when you aren’t prepared. I don’t know if it is any help but I have finally reached a place where I can think of the abuse and not a cell in my body reacts. No flashbacks, anxiety, fear, hate, anger – nothing. It is like I cleaned out the ugly closet in my mind and now it is over. I still have the memories but they just do not effect me anymore. This took a long time and a lot of work but it was worth it. I don’t know if that gives you hope or not – I hope it does.
BTW, only you could make a scene like in this post poetic. I have to *smack* the envy out of myself when I read your stuff. You truly have a gift!
Hugs,
Tamara
Beautifully written. Once again, I was right there with you.
@Cheesemeister – It mostly seems like luck that it stays semi-organised. I wish I had the discipline for true organisation.
@Immi – Heehee I like the thought of that. I suppose paying attention to the world outside will get us there sooner, too. And it’s a good thing to do anyway. I mean, I hope to seem more engaged for those around me. That’s one thing I do want out of life.
@Terri – Yeah, it can make it hard to make it through. But it’s a fight worth fighting. Easier said than done, I know but true all the same.
@Susan – Yes, that makes sense. I suppose for me the writing seems to help most when I’m converting my feelings/experiences into something I see as more valuable. Sometimes that means the writing is ‘negative’ and sometimes it comes across as ‘positive’ but it’s more where it has come from that seems to matter for me. Expression has to have a purpose, a resulting change in the way I see or deal with something, and then it usually does make me feel better.
@Wily – I’ve never really thought of it as a right. I suppose because I tried for a long time not to allow that side of myself out. It seemed dangerous but maybe that is a lot about cultural conditioning. I’m fairly sure you’re right and if I was a man then I wouldn’t worry so much about being seen as aggressive.
I’ve been told one too many times how intimidating I can seem, and it’s totally unconscious on my part. It pisses me off further these days. I’m less likely to retreat back into my shell and listening to you I’m glad about that. Why shouldn’t I have just as much claim to stand my ground as anybody else ‘eh?
@Ash – Thanks, Hun! Yeah, he really needed a good ass kicking. He was a price shithead.
@Tamara – It is a help, cheers. I’m glad to know it’s possible. I’m trying to get there but it’s so dang slow! Good to know I’m not shooting for the impossible though, even if it sometimes feels that way.
LOL And thanks for saying I have a gift. I appreciate it because it also helps to know I can make something better out of even crap like this.
@Jennifer – Thanks! :D
Once again you definitely kept me going all the way to the end, amazing!!
I think there are a lot of us out there that can relate. Keep up the writing girlfriend and whether it’s right or wrong to dwell, if it makes you fell better inside, really that is all that matters.
By the time the rapist found me, I was unable to use the “fight or flight” natural reaction that we have. I’d been beaten and choked less than ten days before by my (ex) boyfriend. He took full advantage of my numbed and passive state, pausing to chain me when I futilely tried to resist.
I’d worked for Women Organized Against Rape, years before. But when I was set free, I ran blindly into late-night empty streets that I no longer recognized. Weeping, screaming, I ran to an after-hours place to find solace. A friend took me to his house. I felt too guilty to report the rape.
Perhaps the worst was telling my mother that he’d anally violated me, so there was no fear of pregnancy. But the PTSD was a violent and awful force to contend with. After a few years, I found out about a drug that was supposed to work miracles. I told my meds guy, and we started me on it immediately.
It was brilliant. It has helped me beyond my wildest dreams. Although I have the occasional flashback, the images no longer flood my mind relentlessly. I get shudders and the creeps, mostly when I’m vulnerable. But it doesn’t rule my life.
It may be true that writing positive thoughts is less detrimental to our psyche. But my belief, my creed and my driving force behind my writing and my painting, is to seek the truth within. An honest expression may not be as comfortable as falling back on topics less challenging, but I’d rather feel the discomfit. For those who are able to think positively, or express themselves that way, more power to them.
I find your writing evocative, stunning, surprising in it’s rich and visual impact. In short, I would hope that you continue this tapestry of words, this cup of human stew, this vision of your world. So that we may touch your mind, if only for a fleeting moment.
@wblmom – Thanks!! :)
((((((Dano))))))
I’m so sorry you got hurt like that but thank you for sharing your story with me. I think I’m the sort who’d rather feel the discomfort, too. I probably wouldn’t know myself if I did not.
I tend to fight even when it’s obviously idiotic. I got mugged once and chased all 3 of them. Yeah, good plan ‘eh ;)
But then it’s an instinct thing so whether you take flight, fight or freeze up isn’t really a choice. And the numbness is classic PTSD stuff anyway.
I’m so glad the medication works wonder for you. That’s a whole lot in this game!
Thank you for your equally stunning compliment. Sure made my day. And I will keep writing, that’s for sure!