Think’ily Broken

The first part of this is something I wrote while I was sick. The second part is more a realization I had while writing it that I expanded on when coming back to actually post it. I don’t expect it to make sense to anyone but if you’re a usual reader then you don’t expect that either.

Think’ily Broken

The big room. The little room.
The rocking back and forth.
Hand twitch and nails itch.
Silence the noise and noise the silence.

The static. The fuzz.
Filtering into all the cracks in my brain.
Pulling newly stable pieces apart.

Tapping and tweaking.
Pacing and stewing.
Can’t shut it off.
Like drugs- drawing me back down.

The masochistic child.
Picking at me with a sharp pair of tweezers.
Pick. Pick. Pick.

I think, perhaps, that I’m making progress. Or at least, that something has changed. I’ve gone through life telling people about things from my past- the more prominent, slightly unavoidable topics that just come up like when I’m asked where my ‘parents’ are. In these moments I’ve been known to say some rather blunt things;

“He shot himself.”
“She was a drunk.”
“When I was little…”

And then when people react strongly;

“Oh, my goodness!”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I shouldn’t have asked…”

I tell them;

“Oh, I didn’t really know him so it’s okay.”
“No, no. It’s alright. I’ve repeated it half a thousand times.”
“It doesn’t effect me anymore.”

Because that’s how it’s always been to me. It’s something I tell people and it’s at a distance. It happened and now it’s in the past. You can’t change the past. You can only move on from it and for the most part that ‘is’ true…

Except when you lack control over your brain and neurotransmitters are shooting off in random directions. When images rush up so harshly it’s almost as if you’re back in the moment and no matter how much you claw at the inside of your skull you can’t escape. When the past effects the happiness of the present and being a generally optimistic person doesn’t do me half as much good as I will it.

Then the past matters but back to my point- even though I feel worse, I think somehow that’s part of me getting better. These things effect me more, hurt me more, right now. Yes, that sucks, but in bringing the wound closer to the surface maybe I’ll finally be able to take care of the scars. In these moments when the hurt feels so fresh I find myself no longer brushing flecks of past blood away.

I don’t say things like;

“It happened and it’s done.”
“It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
“No, I’m fine.  It happened years ago.”

Now I say;

“It happened and it hurts.”

Because it does.

I don’t look at it like I”m looking back through some window. I don’t look back as a strong person who has miraculously made it through this thing untouched. I look back as a broken child who some how survived and even though it hurts more than the former- perhaps I’m stronger for it? I’d like to think so. The writer in me who forever seeks the resolved ending, holding onto cliche like a crutch, would like to think so though in my darker moments… even those used to limping can trip over their safe-guards.

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