fleeting

A heavy weight lays squarely on my chest. It’s crushing me. I can take only short, shallow breaths. 

There’s a tight band across my forehead going back behind my ears. Pulsating. My forehead is scrunched. Light seems really bright. 

I can hear minute sounds in another room. They grow louder and more irritating by the second.

This is the worst day I’ve had in awhile. 

It’s exhausting. 

“I don’t even want to live” barges into my mind. 

I don’t want to die.  

I tell myself: you are safe. I am safe. (Which person should I speak in?).

This “suicidal” part has kept me alive, the part that knows there is always a way to escape the pain. 

It feels quite sinister and unsettling that somewhere in my brain, this is my security blanket, ready at a moment’s notice. (Or really, no notice at all. It just shows up.)

My kids are curled up under fluffy gray quilts. I don’t sleep with my husband so the kids don’t have to sleep alone; divide and conquer/comfort. My A will only fall asleep if I’m facing him, so he knows he is safe. We aren’t a perfect family but it is calm, loving, and warm in this house. 

I barely remember my childhood blanket. It was cool and silky. I visualize a photo of me holding in by a Christmas tree. 5 or 6, straight brown bangs. My chest tightens up. I don’t know everything that happened in that room but I do remember feeling afraid and alone. I know this is when I turned inward. I sat on that chair, coloring on a piece of paper until it looked like a stained glass window, colorful parts of all different lines and angles. I don’t know what happened but I was alone and afraid. 

If I recalled this to my parent, it would be minimized. Denied. Or spark a conversation involving her anxious attachment. About her doing her best, but not in a comforting way. It is hard to explain. But always results in shame for me. 

I will move on and remember my next childhood blanket. A white quilt with a pattern of rainbow colored hearts and ribbon. Matching my canopy bed. I feel on guard. Something happened. I want to get away. 

My mind is protecting me enough to question myself but still allowing visceral sensations to flood me. 

There it fucking is again. The security blanket of not wanting to live. Just a flash. “Fleeting” my professional training would tell me. 

I’m going to reclaim this thought. I do want to live, just not like this. 

I will keep going. 

Walk through and walk through and walk through.