It started with the bang of a door. Someone came in or left through the heavy front doors of the church as people do, as people have done before. The bang was loud in a quiet moment of the church service, a startling sound that everyone in the room heard and then immediately forgot. It was a non-event. Irrelevant. The doors in the front are heavy and close quickly unless whomever is walking through them takes care to slow them down, it's one of those things you forget about until after it's slammed shut behind you.
But this slam was different some how.
Almost instantly, I could hear Mother's voice, the tone that hovered somewhere between mocking and sneering as she called my name, demanded of whoever was in the narthex to tell her where I was. In my mind's eye, I could see the crazed anger as she stormed into the sanctuary, eyes searching for, and eventually finding, me.
The panic set in, the increased blood pressure and the rapid heart rate, the paralyzed-rabbit sense took over that screamed Stay still! Whatever happens, DON'T MOVE A MUSCLE! My scalp began to itch and ache where she would then grab me by my hair and drag me, screaming at me, out of the room.
As this movie played in my mind, obviously the rest of the room was unaware. The service was carrying on as it should and not a single person was any the wiser to the very real panic, my skyrocketing blood pressure, my frantic pulse. The shaking that took over my body as it tried to deal with all of the adrenaline suddenly coursing through my veins with no way to bleed it off. If anything, a person might put the shaking down to shivering in the often-chilly room.
The movie carried on, blocking out whatever else was happening in the present. Being a good parent, movie-me did whatever Mother wanted to keep her attention away from my children, praying that someone would get them somewhere safe. Hoping she wouldn't turn her rage on anyone else there.
Of course, I knew that the movie in my mind wasn't real, but that didn't mean I could stop it. I couldn't stop the shaking or the racing pulse. I was trapped. Trapped with a though, a present mental image based on past events, trapped in a room where panicking or freaking out or getting up would draw too much unwanted attention.
Hours later, when the adrenaline rush had finally subsided, and a migraine had taken it's place, my body decided that sleep was needed to try and right my world, and it worked for a little bit. Until the migraine faded and left in it's wake hyper-vigilance and restlessness, the inability to sleep and the overwhelming feeling of the walls closing in. The feeling that my little bit of precarious happiness was slipping away.
But what, exactly, brought this on? I usually hold it together better than that, right?
It could have been taking out the wedding dress I've never worn to try and sell it. Or it could have been the messages she leaves on the machine at the office, her voice saying my name in that tone. Or it could have been that someone attempted to reach me on her behalf via a text message.
Or it could have been all three.
And 'holding it together' is sometimes not the most accurate way to put it, I put up a good front. I can smile and be social when I'm pressed and I can make believe silly things don't hurt because I know that they wouldn't hurt a normal person, but then I get alone, somewhere private like in the shower and the ache, the hurt, the pain because sometimes It's not fair! and it spills out in hot, silent tears. And then I dry off and put myself back together and go back out and face the world again because I know it doesn't do any good to wallow in things I can not change. This was the hand I was dealt and somehow, somewhere down the line I will use it in a constructive way, for now, though, I will just have to make do simply surviving it.
But this slam was different some how.
Almost instantly, I could hear Mother's voice, the tone that hovered somewhere between mocking and sneering as she called my name, demanded of whoever was in the narthex to tell her where I was. In my mind's eye, I could see the crazed anger as she stormed into the sanctuary, eyes searching for, and eventually finding, me.
The panic set in, the increased blood pressure and the rapid heart rate, the paralyzed-rabbit sense took over that screamed Stay still! Whatever happens, DON'T MOVE A MUSCLE! My scalp began to itch and ache where she would then grab me by my hair and drag me, screaming at me, out of the room.
As this movie played in my mind, obviously the rest of the room was unaware. The service was carrying on as it should and not a single person was any the wiser to the very real panic, my skyrocketing blood pressure, my frantic pulse. The shaking that took over my body as it tried to deal with all of the adrenaline suddenly coursing through my veins with no way to bleed it off. If anything, a person might put the shaking down to shivering in the often-chilly room.
The movie carried on, blocking out whatever else was happening in the present. Being a good parent, movie-me did whatever Mother wanted to keep her attention away from my children, praying that someone would get them somewhere safe. Hoping she wouldn't turn her rage on anyone else there.
Of course, I knew that the movie in my mind wasn't real, but that didn't mean I could stop it. I couldn't stop the shaking or the racing pulse. I was trapped. Trapped with a though, a present mental image based on past events, trapped in a room where panicking or freaking out or getting up would draw too much unwanted attention.
Hours later, when the adrenaline rush had finally subsided, and a migraine had taken it's place, my body decided that sleep was needed to try and right my world, and it worked for a little bit. Until the migraine faded and left in it's wake hyper-vigilance and restlessness, the inability to sleep and the overwhelming feeling of the walls closing in. The feeling that my little bit of precarious happiness was slipping away.
But what, exactly, brought this on? I usually hold it together better than that, right?
It could have been taking out the wedding dress I've never worn to try and sell it. Or it could have been the messages she leaves on the machine at the office, her voice saying my name in that tone. Or it could have been that someone attempted to reach me on her behalf via a text message.
Or it could have been all three.
And 'holding it together' is sometimes not the most accurate way to put it, I put up a good front. I can smile and be social when I'm pressed and I can make believe silly things don't hurt because I know that they wouldn't hurt a normal person, but then I get alone, somewhere private like in the shower and the ache, the hurt, the pain because sometimes It's not fair! and it spills out in hot, silent tears. And then I dry off and put myself back together and go back out and face the world again because I know it doesn't do any good to wallow in things I can not change. This was the hand I was dealt and somehow, somewhere down the line I will use it in a constructive way, for now, though, I will just have to make do simply surviving it.
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