I can’t breathe, I whispered to myself, again, for the hundredth time that hour.
What was it about today? What was it about yesterday? Or every day since mom got sick. I am strong, and confident, and intelligent, yet you could not convince my psyche of that in anyway shape or form right now.
How do I see myself? That is a great question. I don’t look for myself. I hide. The poor, beaten, terrified, little girl in a cage doesn’t want to be seen. She wants you to drown her in vodka and escapism. Forget she exists. Reinvent yourself and leave her far behind.
The problem is, she won’t die. She just keeps crying out for help.
So I kill off other stuff. My patience, my self-love and forgiveness. I look for those who have hurt me to hurt them back. I dull the pain with more pain.
I am not a cutter, unless you count cutting out everything in hopes of a hermitage escape from myself.
Yet there I am, upon walden pond, upon the yoga mat, in the hot tub, alone in my office, face to face with tear stains, haunted and darting eyes, frantic looks, and pleas for help.
How do I help? If she were anyone else, I would understand and drop everything.
How do I teach myself to breathe again, for the hundredth time this hour.