“I think, no I worry, that you look back too much with sad eyes and a dry tongue.”
Fiction. Based on a True Relationship with Space.
This journal entry is inspired by true events. Some of the characters, names, businesses, incidents, and certain locations and events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Any similarity to the name, character or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional.
Trigger Warning: our program often motivates people to discuss their trauma. If you find yourself feeling overwhelmed, please, take a step back to address emotional flashbacks and trauma before continuing to push yourself. If you are experiencing a medical emergency, call 911 or the National Suicide Hotline at (1-800) 273-8255.
Quiet. I got to the point where I tried to avoid it, again. I filled my every waking moment with noise. I avoided the page because that would have meant giving space.
And I was so alone. Alone in my irrational fears . . . alone in the house. No one could really understand.
Now they can see the fear that I felt. It’s all around us.
I can say all this now, as I listen to the incessant bird chirping in the trees, the bushes. The sun and its warmth is poking in and out and around the clouds.
I was thrown from lucidity into mindless terror. That’s what it was like when I was in it. Terror for me, my family, my friends . . .
Then I danced it all away. There we were, at the end of the night, arms linked, singing. I lifted my eyes up to the brownness of the ceiling and felt tears prick at their corners. I was there, even if none of them could see me for who I am . . .
There’s no dancing anymore. I was blessed to feel the worst of the fear when I was still surrounded by what I loved most.
In that moment, in that tiny brown space full of sweating and breathing people (we used to take this for granted), I realized I have to trust in those around me during this time of fear. Trust in our love, care, and protection for ourselves and each other.
I must be comfortable with space and with a lack of it.