Surface Play
Below the surface, the terror trembles, the stench stings, the pain tears through my guts. I will always be desperate to move. The drugs that paralyzed me made sure I never would take it for granted.
No one knew.
I crawled back up to the surface and tried to move along. All the while, my feet were locked in it’s gravity well. The darkness always pulling me down.
_____________________________
I spent the night with my mother. She is recovering from a foot surgery and is temporarily in a wheelchair. It’s been a pleasant visit. But all surface. That is exactly what I expected.
A few months ago I told her what happened when I was missing 45 years ago. She is the woman who sprung right to “but you’re ok now?”.
Yes I am mom.
But sitting here in her apartment I see so clearly there was no place for my trauma at home. So many things seem so long ago, faded and forgotten. But not those terrible days. The smells still linger. The details are sharp. I know they always will be. I am oddly OK with that.
What I am not, is this disconnect. I can’t expect her to be anyone other than who she is. But the contrast illuminates my needs.
I wish I could connect with her. I wish she asked me to tell her what it was like. I want her to know how brave I was when I escaped. I wish I sought comfort way back then. I wish they were capable of giving it.
_____________________________
I slip into this surface play so easily. Smiles and small talk. And that is alright. Because I know the truth. And she heard me when I told her I was kidnapped. She can and must do what she will with that.
I know who we are.
No one knew.
I crawled back up to the surface and tried to move along. All the while, my feet were locked in it’s gravity well. The darkness always pulling me down.
_____________________________
I spent the night with my mother. She is recovering from a foot surgery and is temporarily in a wheelchair. It’s been a pleasant visit. But all surface. That is exactly what I expected.
A few months ago I told her what happened when I was missing 45 years ago. She is the woman who sprung right to “but you’re ok now?”.
Yes I am mom.
But sitting here in her apartment I see so clearly there was no place for my trauma at home. So many things seem so long ago, faded and forgotten. But not those terrible days. The smells still linger. The details are sharp. I know they always will be. I am oddly OK with that.
What I am not, is this disconnect. I can’t expect her to be anyone other than who she is. But the contrast illuminates my needs.
I wish I could connect with her. I wish she asked me to tell her what it was like. I want her to know how brave I was when I escaped. I wish I sought comfort way back then. I wish they were capable of giving it.
_____________________________
I slip into this surface play so easily. Smiles and small talk. And that is alright. Because I know the truth. And she heard me when I told her I was kidnapped. She can and must do what she will with that.
I know who we are.
