I haven’t fallen asleep before 4a.m. in almost a month. I sit awake all night long, in bed. A box of
Christmas cards that I never mailed sits beside me on the floor.
I suppose I can understand why friends and loved ones treat
a person like the bad thing that happened to them stopped happening the moment
the doctor tells them they’re free to go.
I like to think the same thing, most days. But it’s not how it works. The bad things that happen are at their worst
after everyone leaves, when I have to sit alone with my own thoughts and –
worse – inside my own body. Everyday
when I take a shower or put on my socks or change into my gym shoes I see the
bright red scrape on my ankle that just won’t heal. I can
still align my fingers with the green and purple prints on my hips. I can push my fingertips hard against the
bruises, but it doesn’t hurt. I think it
would be better if it hurt. If it hurt
maybe I would be something other than just quiet. Lately, I find the hardest thing to be
talking to other people. Even well
meaning people who text things like, “How are you?” And I have to say “I’m fine” or “I’m good” or
“I’m ok” because it’s not like I’m crying. You have to tell people you’re fine
in times like this because what else can you say? I
changed and the world didn’t? Besides, people are uncomfortable with
truth. They don’t like to be reminded
that their perception of how the world works, of right and wrong, of safe and
dangerous is just that: a perception.
Someone told me after it happened that I shouldn’t be
writing about it; I should be doing something about it. But this is what I do. I remember, I first wanted to be a writer
because it was something to do; it was the only thing to do about most of what
happened to me. I never trusted other
people’s justice, but I trusted the way the words moved. Writing is a solitary activity.
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