These past two weeks, I’ve spent more time in an intimate relationship with you than I have in a year. My hip bones have made a permanent crease where typically my shoulders lie.
I look out my window at the world that goes weirdly on, as the world in my head swirls like the season of hurricanes hitting the south. I want to sleep so badly as I’m desperately exhausted, but when my eyes close, they can’t stop moving.
Your support has moved into just a container for my body to be while my mind quickly falls apart.
I get glimmers from the outside world while leaning against the back, my head with imprints of the columns of the headboard.
- An email from my mother about hanging pictures on her wall (sure, let’s do that next week; defer.)
- A Facebook message from a friend about Anderson Cooper (Yes, still sexy as hell; this is making me seem totally stable right?)
- A text from my husband that my child got the winning goal at his soccer game just now with 5 seconds left in the game.
- Brain path:
- –> I’m so proud.
- —>Wow that’s great.
- –> I wasn’t there.
- –> I am in this bed right now instead of at his soccer game.
- –> Watching fucking House of Cards.
- –> What the hell am I actually doing?
- –> I am failing at mothering and adulting and wife-ing.
- –> I am failing at life.
- –> (I fall apart at this moment.)
- Brain path:
My place of solitude and refuge now becomes the place that has a grip that prevented me from participating in life.
The fingers of PTSD have me trapped in your expensive mattress.