I'm so exhausted
He's talking to me.
About something he's read.
About something that happened at work.
About the weekend.
About what we have to do next month.
He's talking to me, about many things.
And its quiet and its dark.
And I'm exhausted.
He's looking at me, with this expression on his face-as if he's seeing me for the first time.
It kind of makes me feel weird and soaring all at the time.
"Stop talking to me. You're talking to me as if I'm a normal functioning person."
"But you are! You so are", he says it with complete glee. As if something really astounding has occurred. "You are functioning".
He's grinning at me and it makes me growl.
I have cried so many times this week, over the littlest things.
I have begged him--damn well pleaded with him, to please, please, please don't make me do it all over again tomorrow.
I've told him that this is hell, that I would rather be back in highschool.
He's pushed me this week.
He knows it.
And just because I'm strong af, it doesn't mean that I wanna.
I have no limits.
He's been making me want a big old red button.
My stupid ankle is taking forever to heal--even though I am throwing all the arnica-comfrey-advil-things at it and I'm pretty sure I have a broken toe.
But I showered.
I washed my hair.
I used some gods-awful-lush-shower-gel.
I washed my body.
I thought about the weekend plans and plans for the business, and I thought about hockey and I thought about calling my brother, and I thought about getting together with a friend, and I thought that I should really clean my bathroom tiles and I thought about an article I had read.
Three years ago, I couldn't.
three years ago, I would run the water as hot as I could take it and stand under it, letting it run over my hair and neck. The only places that the water didn't hurt when touched and get out as quickly as I could.
Getting ready for bed one night after my hot-water-hair-rinse, he handed me a shirt, put a hand on my shoulder, looked down.
"Sweetheart, there is still blood and it looks pretty bad...you haven't washed, have you?"
And I collapsed in his arms, in tears.
He brought me to the bed, laid me down and with a warm washcloth and cloth of gauze, cleaned all my bloody dirty parts as the tears seeped out of me, soaking the pillows, soaking my neck.
And after he had finished? I jumped up off the bed and screamed at him, in a fit of rage.
We didn't know then, that rage was one of those tell-tale symptoms.
So I showered.
And my heart wasn't beating out of my chest.
I didn't feel red-hot-rage take over me.
My mind was not stuck replaying the same loop over and over and over again.
I had this notion, you see. That if I had the EXPERIENCE, it would---I don't know.
That the pain wouldn't be there? That it would negate the first experience?--I don't know.
That all the symptoms would be no more? I don't know.
I do know, that healing takes its own time.
And it can hurt. The brighter it burns.
And the then and the now can meet and mingle and while I feel overwhelming love and joy and gratitude for the now, I can still grieve the then. That the two are both my experiences and its going to take time for them to be woven into a narrative that is seamless.
Its not a bad start, on the whole, though.