Friday, February 17, 2017

They Persist

I'm in one of my favorite safe places right now- the coffee shop, just puttering around with my journal, a little water color here, some washi tape there, surrounded by a semi-circle of pretty fountain pens and leather stationary goods, blessedly alone.  I am coping, in other words, with her upcoming birthday and the heartbreak, guilt, and anguish that accompanies it.  I always listen to music while I write and draw, so it wasn't long (especially considering my mind set right now) before one certain line of song lyrics triggered all the alarms.  "Only One" by Yellowcard came on and this line, "scream my lungs out and try to get to you" came along...

and BAM!  I am transported to running down the road, hearing my shoes hit the ground and my heart pumping blood in my ears.  So real.  So absolutely crystal clear...crisp.  I could remember it all, and it was less of a remembrance and more like reliving it, every sensation, every emotion:  the oppressive, baking heat of the day, that first initial pang of anger at her that I've never told a living soul (certainly none of the four therapists or even Dr. Z) about..haven't I told her to be careful, to look both ways?!

Deep in my flashback, the anger just as quickly was gone and instead a small but mighty bird of  PANIC was set loose inside my body, desperate to find a way out and unable to, left instead to careen into every surface it encountered.  Arms pumping...feet slapping down on the pavement...slap...slap...slap...trying to calm myself by thinking of what she would need put into a bag for the hospital because she'd probably broken her leg and would have to stay overnight, but that was okay.  We'd been through worse.  What was one night in a regular hospital room compared to weeks in a locked psych ward?  We got this.
Sitting in my seat at Starbucks, I could actually smell the air as it was that day and I could feel my muscles working as I ran faster than I have ever run before.
 My mental list making, while a tried and true coping skill, was completely unnecessary.  My girl would never make it inside an ambulance, let alone to the hospital.  She'd be picked up by the hearse 90 minutes after laying there in the hot sun.  (I stop here wishing so many things...that I'd cussed out the first responders for not even trying or pretending to try to save her, that I'd physically fought the cop who forced  me to leave the scene, that I'd made good on my death-by-gnome fantasy of killing the driver who has never contacted me.  Rage swallows me up and I go willingly, taking deep breaths for several moments until reason returns and I see that it is too late for the first two actions and the latter would only leave me behind bars, unable to see or finish raising my son.

Calm at last, I  turn my thoughts to something light and fun...distract yourself, Nick, pivot, woman.

And there comes the sheet floating down over her.  Lazy.  Billowing.
Forcing myself not to scream in public, I dig my nails into my thigh and let the hot tears stain my face, not giving a shit who looks at me.

This is what flashbacks are like.  They don't play fair.  They come for you when you are most vulnerable.  And they don't give up.

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