Fortsettelse

Sometimes I wonder why my eyes are wet.

Countless times have I watched my mother drip fake tears into her eyes. As a child I was glad to never have to touch the plastic dropper to my corneas, but now I wish for it. Control over an emotion that often controls me.

For when I open up my mouth to open up my headspace tears heed to a call I do not give. Whereas hiding used to be as easy as a curtain pulled over an open window, rehabilitation has tied the curtains back, forcing me to watch the sun make his daily slog across the sky.

Sometimes I wonder if my head is full now.

Full of memories and love and friendship and conversations I wait to have. My sobs used to be swallowed, the salty brine filling my skull, dampening my senses and forcing me to see through the surface tension.

I figure it is better to have tear tracks down my face than an overflowing sink in my brain. But frustration creeps in when my smile falls flat like a skipping stone to the lakebed after my camera shuts off. When these days in bed become more frequent. When the clock continues on while I stay stuck in a time zone of my own, trapped in a loop of TV static and endless waiting. I know not what I wait for, only that if I forget to twiddle my thumbs that I will forget to jump out of the pot before it boils.

Sometimes I wonder when my memory failed me.

When my sentences lost their eloquence and my speech became stilted. When the presence of a pen and paper became necessity, a list of tasks my best friend.

I have lost the simple things, words and jokes and directions and schedules. I worry that the important things will leave too. The knowledge that my brother seems to intuitively know when I feel down and keeps me company. The knowledge that, if given the chance, my mother will stay up into the wee hours of the morning to talk. The knowledge that my father asks to listen to my music when he sees me frown. The knowledge that my friend will physically anchor me when my mind leaves the atmosphere, slowly talking me back down to earth. The knowledge that I am worth their time, their effort. That I am worth my time, my effort.

Sometimes I wonder where this journey of healing will end.

The dark seems to chase me just as Selene pushes the light to the horizon. It seems sad, that I only wish to be good company though I can no longer touch them, hear them breathe, meet their eyes across a room. Him especially.

It takes time, they say, to heal wounds. Scar tissue is tough though. Knotted flesh thickly protecting trauma from days and weeks and months and years past. All I ask now is patience. Patience with my illogical jumps. Patience with my emotions who no longer regard me as their master. Patience with the two sidedness that I try to keep from you, as the last thing I want is for you to worry. I am learning to grip the handrails first. I hope that eventually I will be able to take your hand and leave the safety of the wall. That I then might be able to disentangle our fingers and stand on my own two feet for the first time since I was a child, unburdened with consciousness.

It takes time.

Seconds and minutes and hours all pressed into numbers on the clock.

All I have to do is continue.