worthy of love.

I’ve been losing time on the train. One second I’m staring out the window thinking about groceries and the next I’m in Queens. I feel shame and fear and disorientation the first few times this happens. I get off and walk the distance home. Body and brain racked with stress and pain this last month. Effects entirely unknown but I’d guess the old childhood trauma is flaring up. I lose track of my thoughts. Always the sort of person to walk into a room and have no idea what I’m doing there, but lately it’s more severe. I’ll be watching TV and on my computer and think YES I have to find that out, my fingers hover over the keyboard, cursor on the google toolbar, and my mind is blank. Entirely blank. And it never comes back. The best idea I’ve ever had and it’s dissipated into dust. I’ve forgotten bills, birthdays, appointments. Time turns on its head and smiles at me like a cheshire cat.

Inability to connect is staring at me in my foggy mirror. Having so many friends visit me since graduation has highlighted this. Person after person, meal after meal, I’m acutely aware I’m not in my body, not of my mouth, my hands, my feet. Someone else’s body. This is not my beautiful house.

I realize I’ve been drunk since graduation, more or less. Celebratory drinking. Sure. Connection, glorious superb connection. I realized sitting here thinking about dissociation, that I’ve only been sober for casual sex one time, and that time I was so far out of my body I was floating in the ether. I didn’t feel a thing. I pretended like I did, of course, I’m polite like that. It was like a drug, heroin straight into my veins, served only to numb. I thought all my casual play was coming from my own power. My young, powerful, fuck-like-a-man mentality. Strong aware confident. Perhaps this is all true still, in part, but undoubtedly pieces of my extracurricular activities are related to my dead insides. It’s easier not to feel. And I can still convince myself in the morning that there was human connection. I thought about my long term relationships and the sex had there… the revulsion I felt, the discomfort, the tears. Except for with M. He was a safety net, a warm blanket, hot chocolate and pajamas. A was a disaster. It was either volatile – hair pulling, trash talking, or drunk – unprotected, stupid, pointless, the opposite of orgasmic, or numb – routine, awful excruciating discomfort and sadness. The difference… who knows.

Symptoms acute. Cause known. Cure? There is none, I fear. How far does therapy go? How much does my self actually help when it’s wounded? I want to burrow deep into the ground and be healed by the quiet inside my own head, and emerge as a healed, whole person.

Worthy of love.