I woke up this morning feeling great. Like I'd slept enough and everything was fine and it's a beautiful day but as the hours progress I'm not so sure.
I feel like such a wimp.
I know damn well that Mr. Moon would have gone right back to work after having a post jammed into his jaw. He just would have. He probably would have refused all the drugs, too.
"Just give me some Novocaine and let's get this done! I've got an appointment to sell a car at four!"
Well, he is who he is and I am who I am. And who I am is not feeling spectacular today and a lot of it is in my mind and some of that is probably clearing my body of all those lovely drugs and some of it may be the book I'm listening to, which is "We Are Water" by Wally Lamb which I mentioned the other day. It is a very good book and as Mr. Lamb does, he has taken many different threads and voices and woven them together in a tight braid of a story and one of the threads involves a sexual predator who preys on little girls and it goes back to his story and how he was preyed upon and not in a way that makes you feel exactly compassionate towards him but at least a little more understanding of how these things happen and I am thinking of how some people lately have been saying that works of art should be labeled for triggers for people with certain issues so that they may avoid them and I'm not sure how I feel about this. For one thing, everyone's triggers are probably so different. What may be a completely benign and even lovely image to most people, may trigger a horrible emotional reaction in someone else.
Of course, the details of all abuse are similar and yet as diverse as any human activity. And an artist, an author, a poet may need to create work which reflects his or her own traumas, a sort of therapy of release, perhaps, and this is something I can very much understand. It has just never occurred to me that I myself need to be protected from the works or words of others. If something disturbs me mightily I can turn away, put the book down, leave the theater. That is in my control. And there have been times when yes, I have most definitely been triggered and this may be one of those times. I feel a certain sense of disassociation at the moment and honestly, I don't know if it's the remnants of the drugs, the insult to the body I just experienced, or the words I am listening to from a book. Mr. Lamb certainly gets it right, the way the predator grooms his victims, the way he describes the relationship the pedophile curries between himself and the mother of the little girl in order to gain access to the child.
The way the child comes to love him dearly before he molests her.
Whatever the cause, whatever the root of this disassociation, I am feeling scattered all over the place, laundry going, a cleaning-my-room project halfway started and temporarily abandoned, trying to decide if I'm going to town today or not, the idea of a walk taken on and given up.
I know I dreamed of my stepfather last night but I cannot remember the dream.
I don't know if I would be putting myself and others in danger to drive to town or if I would be able to shed this spacey fog and focus and go on and break through. I'm not sure I care to risk that.
So odd how after fifty-one years, the events which occurred in my life still have such a powerful hold on me. Not all the time, by any means. I think that I, like many, many survivors of abuse, am able to function quite well. I am beyond grateful that the cursed sickness of pedophilia was not passed on to me in any way, shape or form and that my love for my children has been as clear and bright and fierce and right as the love of angels for their gods. That whatever demons I do have are far more mundane and include an overwhelming desire to protect children from any sort of pain. My own children as well as other children.
But sometimes, yeah, you get blindsided. And I'm not sure that any sort of label would prevent that. And perhaps every time I go through something like this I come out the other end a little stronger, a little more aware and compassionate through the knowledge for certain sure that I am not the only one. My story is my story but it is in no way a unique one.
Well, this post is probably meandering and poorly written. But even through my spaciness, my disassociation, I feel the need to get these words down. Get 'em down, take the time to actually get through the feelings from one end to the other (and of course, that has to begin with FEELING the feelings) and then to go on.
Can't rush these things, whether they be the use of a chisel in the jaw or the memories of my nine-year old self. And I'm old enough (if not wise at all) to know that.
Much love on a beautiful Friday...Ms. Moon