I haven’t written in almost a year and that’s because everything was actually kind of fine, even kind of good. This past year had been one of the hardest in my life when it comes to making tough decisions. I made a decision about love and I thought I was right – it felt right to jump into the unknown and to explore something a bit risky, something a bit exciting, something comforting, something that I thought hurt the less.
And yet, here I am again, writing again, which must necessarily mean that I am made of the special kind of desperation that allows me to write. Something happened last night, something that shocked me to the core of who I am. I thought I was in control of the situation – I felt in control, but he let it slip into the territory of abuse.
During that night, something happened that can’t be changed anymore. I have six separate injuries, two on my arms, two on my legs, my knee can’t take my weight properly, but the worst of all, I am now left with a small bald patch on my head. Where once were my hair – the one thing that gave me security in how I looked over the years – there now was a red patch of bold skin with little droplets of blood where a hair follicle once used to be. Instead of there, my hair was now desperately clinging to my hands each time I gently combed my hair through. It was coming out in patches and seeing it entwined in my fingers where once his fingers rested against mine, I lost it. I lost my control then – crying and letting myself be in a frenzy over what it all meant.
It took me long hours to calm myself and simply accept that it happened. I slept there because I just couldn’t be that bold, independent woman who got her stuff and ran. Instead I was this bold, sad thing that climbed into bed next to him with great difficulty and tried to forget through sleep.
But today came nevertheless. And today I was still this – still a shell, still frightened of what it means, still not being able to accept that this is all over now.
Music as of late: Robbie Williams – She’s The One