Mrs. Lady came for dinner last night and it was a lovely evening - great food. Great wine. Great conversation. We were talking about trauma and moving past it, and I was shocked to realise that for some reason - even though my master's thesis uses trauma theory and bearing witness as it's theoretical model so really I should know this - I haven't been willing or able to tell my story. And I said to her, I wonder what it would be like to write what I really want and need to say instead of limiting myself to what won't piss people off.
It's not a new theme. It's always been a better idea for me to round the edges off life's sharpness than to approach it straight on. I euphemise. I poeticise. I hide and ambiguate. I lie, when it comes right down to it and I deem that it's in everyone's best interest.
Only it's never in my best interest. Not really. I'm suffocating in words. Choking back the stories I can't tell. Buried under mountains of accusations and assumptions and fears and recriminations. And, nobody wants to hear it. Not really. People want me to suck it up. To move on. To stop taking things so personally. To not have my life be about me. They want me to focus on the positive. To share my happy shiny love story. To look forward instead of back.
Only none of the nightmare is in the past. It's in the corner of my living room. It's waiting in the dark when I turn out the light and lay in bed with my eyes wide open. It's in the garage rafters taunting me. It's wandering the street hungry waiting for the next time to strike. It's the squeaky voice of every lie, and the fearful ear of my believing them. It's the smile that never reaches my eyes. And while I'm busy protecting everyone from the truth, no one is protecting me - I can't escape it. It's the water I drown in.
Change is coming. It has to come. I have to let the words out before my throat collapses from the strain of holding them in. If only I knew how. If only I had the lessons in honesty that I have in elocution.