When I went in for a dental checkup (which I put off, always, because nothing makes me anxious like them) I learned that I grind my teeth at night. Severely. I had no idea I did so - I've been having tooth and jaw pain, but assumed I had cavities.
It turns out PTSD often causes extreme grinding, and everything clicks into place yet again.
It's both reassuring and terrifying.
Also, holidays suck.
12.11.2013
because of you
Why did I read that book? I knew it was about abduction. I knew what was going to be involved.
You think that I'd know better not to read things like that when the weather turns, when it gets cold and snowy and I remember my first Take Back The Night, and the first time I listened to Tori Amos, and the first time told myself my own story - part of it, anyway.
It was December 18th.
In some ways, I'm grateful for the knot in my stomach, and the way my breath seems difficult, and the way reading things like that shake memories loose but I can't seem to hold onto any of them or tell if it's real or if it's what I'm reading because every book reads exactly the same way for me, every abuser has one of their faces -
it's disorienting and terrifying and makes me feel like maybe I've made it all up, but then I remember that the reason I was so drawn to those books and reason I watched so much SVU in those liminal years between abusers is because at least that way I didn't feel so alone, so crazy.
The shaking is sacred, it reminds me that the past is real, and that even though over these last three years the daily thoughts have slowly faded, it doesn't mean I've forgotten and don't mean that I'm over it, it doesn't mean that I wasn't a little girl once, down on her knees in his closet.
It takes a book to remind me of the horrifying things that have happened to me, that they're supposed to be horrifying. It takes a book to remind me of where I've been and it takes a book to make me feel my stomach ache and I want to cry and scream and curl up inside until the hurting stops
oh god oh god oh god here we go again
oh these little earthquakes
You think that I'd know better not to read things like that when the weather turns, when it gets cold and snowy and I remember my first Take Back The Night, and the first time I listened to Tori Amos, and the first time told myself my own story - part of it, anyway.
It was December 18th.
In some ways, I'm grateful for the knot in my stomach, and the way my breath seems difficult, and the way reading things like that shake memories loose but I can't seem to hold onto any of them or tell if it's real or if it's what I'm reading because every book reads exactly the same way for me, every abuser has one of their faces -
it's disorienting and terrifying and makes me feel like maybe I've made it all up, but then I remember that the reason I was so drawn to those books and reason I watched so much SVU in those liminal years between abusers is because at least that way I didn't feel so alone, so crazy.
The shaking is sacred, it reminds me that the past is real, and that even though over these last three years the daily thoughts have slowly faded, it doesn't mean I've forgotten and don't mean that I'm over it, it doesn't mean that I wasn't a little girl once, down on her knees in his closet.
It takes a book to remind me of the horrifying things that have happened to me, that they're supposed to be horrifying. It takes a book to remind me of where I've been and it takes a book to make me feel my stomach ache and I want to cry and scream and curl up inside until the hurting stops
oh god oh god oh god here we go again
oh these little earthquakes
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