Jun. 14th, 2009

evilkate: (Default)

Being assaulted, made helpless, a witness of your own reduction is a singular experience - one I could never wish upon anyone: not those very few I have hated in my life nor those who have inflicted this very moment on myself. It leaves a strain, an embedded strand you can't remove, though you try, you endlessly keep trying to un-thread that needle. Maybe it does fade someday. If so, I have not reached that day yet.

This is not an essay of woe-is-me, just an effort to write some details out and, by reflection, maybe find some answers - or, at least uncover where to start looking. A 'survivor' is like a cemetery in many ways - there is so much buried in us; so much that is dead and so much more of what once lived. Some of it we bury ourselves - nerve-endings and those raw edges we are weary of carrying. We also bury parts of ourselves at sea and, in order to keep our lungs full, we learn to breath underwater. The art is not so hard - once the need arises. We cast off the things too painful, the moments we don't want defining us. The real problem rises when we start burying anything that might risk entering such moments again.

For me that was trust.

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