A few summer holidays ago, I would spend most of it in a dissociative state. These days, I am less out of body. The trauma still lies underneath all I do, but i seem to have accepted it. I’m not so scared of it. I often wonder how much truth is in the lines I write. As though there is a part of me that believes it and another part that thinks I’m constantly full of cow dung.
I want to be whole, but I want to fully experience (see, hear, taste, feel and smell) the fragments of my hidden abuse. It’s about verification, validation and justification. I know I have pieces, yet I long for coherence, narrative. A mosaic narrative is fine, but everything still feels shattered. Yes mosaics are pieces, but to me the point of a mosaic is it comes together to represent a greater picture. I feel 26 again. Desperate to make impact and do positive things, yet still in identity formulation stage.
I’m impatient. It’s about process. Sometimes sitting with the discomfort of present day is harder than sitting with the discomfort of memory. As though I am waiting for the bomb to go off, but I don’t know when or how or who will trigger it. Maybe it will never go off.