Wednesday, June 22, 2011

I have been busy.

Which, for me, is good. Busy means I can't take up residence in my head and meander into places that should, by rights, be boarded up and sealed off. That place plays a soundtrack of such grief and fear and desolation that it should drive me away by the melody that floats out of it's windows. Bon Iver singing the saddest songs I have ever heard.

It doesn't, though. I still stand in that driveway, looking past the overgrown bushes. Smiling at the sunflowers that seem to spring up, unbidden, unplanned, unwanted.

I walk the perimeters of that place, careful to never fully cross over into it's boundaries. I want to visit, but I don't want to go in.

So, I walk around and around. The sweat trickles down into the small of my back. I ponder what I feel as I scrabble through my tenderness to find the words to describe it all.

All I find is quiet. There is not nothing, but not turmoil. It is smooth and settled, no wind on the watery well of my soul.

I look. I peek. I stare. I slap a mosquito on my leg. Filled with my blood, it explodes into a smear on my skin. I pick some of the flowers for my room, then turn away from that house and walk home. Content with what I have.

1 Baleful Regards:

Anonymous said...

Yesss. One of the best things about therapy is getting to notice that no matter how bad things were back then, the truth is that you survived, and there's nobody hurting you now. You're safe, so you can exhale. You don't ever have to feel that scared again. And you don't ever have to tolerate that kind of abuse. I'm so glad you're getting to that place, Dawn. I've been quietly rooting for you for years.

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