Chicken Dinner
Except it’s not a winner.
I wrote a long piece, then chickened out at the last minute on publishing it.
Not meant for eyes to see, only for me to work out.
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I am certain no one will be visiting my pages, but I still chickened out. One day, maybe. Or maybe it won’t happen at all and it will sit in Drafts forever, my story lost when my life is over.
Without details, this is what is going on with my body these days since my birthday 2 weeks ago.
The heart palpitations wouldn’t stop.
Sometimes accompanied by shaking hands.
Sometimes the throat tightens and a surprise tear rolls down.
The numbness is a constant.
This feels like a grind, and I am not sure how long more I can mask and function normally.
My insides are all shredded, and torn up in a bloodbath.
Trauma that hasn’t been processed in 10 years is 10 years too long.
I am visiting a therapist soon — I never thought I would go to one.
I thought I am strong enough to handle all that has happened, and my mind, my most prized possession, is enough for me to recalibrate life after all the shock.
Apparently, I am wrong.
The body keeps scores, and it is a part of me as much as my mind is.
I know I am destabilizing. And I know this feeling too well.
It is all rushing back, the memories and emotions that I thought I have successfully killed and buried.
They were just hiding, but they weren’t gone.
And now they are shouting to be heard.
I am not able to escape.
