Monday, March 10, 2014

Who's Afraid Of Virgina Woolfe?

There are some things I am afraid of talking about. Afraid of starting on, because it'll lead me from one memory to another to another until it is all too late and...
And I'm afraid of that. 

But I'm also, admittedly, afraid of blocking things out. Afraid of finding that I have let my defense mechanisms wrap me up so quickly, so tightly, that parts of me never get to breathe again, never get to heal properly. 

Perhaps this is me in that in between. Trying to dissect things only as much as I dare to, all while wincing and well... Trying to be brave I suppose. 

Last Friday left me really creeped out. 
Sure, i managed to walk away. Sure, I managed to give the bloke a bit of what he deserved. And sure, I can say that this time, I didn't freeze up. That this time I won't look back and say, "I should've.."
But I can't say I walked away completely unscathed. 

You feel fear in different parts of your body. 
For me that often means parts of me shutting down, clamping up. And no, it's not very useful. 

Being grabbed, pulled back, pressed up against-
When you're in a crowd, when you've got enough in you to attempt to move yourself and your friend out of the situation, when you're trying to shake him off, when you're a little more than slightly aware that you can't move more than two steps because of a force that's keeping you...

Here is me in all my honesty and as much nakedness as I can bear;
Fear was a very fleeting emotion that was quickly replaced by annoyance and irritation. I don't think I'd even built up to anger yet, really. What I did just seemed like a very practical thing to do, at the time. And it was. And I'm glad i did. 
But. There are some bruises that cannot be seen. 

And long after this, they might just still be there. 

As much as I've tried to not let this trigger other memories, there have been bits and pieces spilling out of other boxes. Not in overwhelming amounts, just yet. 
But in all the quiet moments that I yank myself out of, I am painfully aware-
that there are people whose fingertips I can still feel underneath my skin, whose breath I can feel against my ear. 

I am okay. 
I think. 
Or I will be. 

I would've liked to, or tried to, talk about this given the chance. But instead I've been sad and upset and adamant on not acknowledging why. Of course other things piled on- like being ill and fretful and it's easier to cling on to something more reasonable. (Kind of more reasonable anyway. It's all relative isn't it?)

All I've been able to say out loud is how much I need a cuddle. Or how it's a cry-in-bed- sorta day. Or how I get terribly needy when I'm ill. All of which is true. 
So I've done a mix really- 
Cry myself into a few sleeps (some fitful and others sad), wishing I could be held, and not wanting to do this alone. 
Even though I know I have to. 
Even though I know it's a bit too late. 
Even though I know that now, by this point, some part of me will shirk from a touch that I might actually need. 

I think, this weekend, I just really needed
To not be as alone as I was. 

But I'll be okay. 
I'll be okay.

I'm okay. Really, I am. 


"Who's afraid of Virginia Woolfe?"
"I am George.... I am."

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