To feel safe again..
To rest a full night’s sleep without jerking awake to some sound I may or may not have actually heard..
To lay my head down and have a nap without the drive to be within arm’s reach of a solid metal baseball bat..
To be able to use the toilet or bath while home alone without the terror that someone will be jingling the door handle at that exact moment I have my pants down..
To listen to music at full blast and dance around the kitchen without worrying whether I could hear the wooden boards I’ve placed near the door fall away if someone were to push them over..
To feel safe again.
To regain that sense of security associated with, “Home.”
In this rickety old house in the middle of Downtown, odd sounds and creakings are something you learn to get used to. I’ve lived here for almost a year; my boyfriend for two years longer. He has become a pro at ignoring most noises. I thought I had gotten accustomed to it all too..not so. It’s off-putting how a singular instance of negative experience can serve to mark us with the wound of remembering it..the scar of memory…trauma.
Two days before Thanksgiving this year, my boyfriend and I got into a heated and emotionally charged verbal argument. By the time we’d resolved it and