I find myself circling in the center of the room, holding patterns, avoiding the loss swept into the corners. So much pain there, so little of it truly resolved. I pushed it away to forget it, and this new life keeps asking me to sift through those painful memories and feel them all over again, this time really feel them, so I can grieve them and let them go.
I like the center, I like the pretending part where even though I was hurt, I was tougher than the hurt and the pain didn't really touch me. I like the middle of the room where I imagine that these things today are not monsters I helped create but that they are all somebody else's fault. I fear getting lost down the rabbit hole of black, jagged edges where everything I was supposed to be able to trust in wasn't ever really real. I don't want to be confronted with those feelings yet. I wanted to wait to deal with them, wait forever as if that's all it would take to make them less painful.
That's the tricky thing about them. You would think that time would blunt them, burn down the hard and sharp parts, soften the clout to the side of my head and ease the squeeze of the fist on my heart. And then I find that no, there has been not one iota of change in those feelings of helplessness and grief and anger and excruciating pain. Not one shred of lessening of the feeling that it wouldn't have happened if I had been better, if I had less ugly, less messy, less self-absorbed.
Thousands of miles between you and I and there's no comfort to be found, no shoulder to hide my face in, no enabler to help me pretend the past isn't real and that now and the tomorrow is all there ever was or ever will be. No strong hand to hold to reassure me that this time its different, that you are not the other one. Every shattered nerve, every thread of anxiety that loops itself through my gut adds more miles to what already exists between us. But really, its only me putting them there.
Where do I find the balance between unfocusing enough to make the time pass more quickly and crawling into the hole with old grief and letting it burn its way out of my core? How do I keep myself from dropping - no, throwing down - the lines of connection so that we can still be reached?
Trust comes so hard for me. No, you are not the other. I know that. Never have I had any reason to do anything other than trust you. But the ugly voice from the corners reminds me: There was a time when I didn't have any reason not to trust him, either. Open and transparent-seeming eyes looked straight at me, reasonable voices comforted me, soothed me and fed me buckets of steaming lies. Which part is the part where I can distinguish between the real and the construct?
And so I avoid the corners. Let the things swept there lie a while longer.