People leaving is hard for me. Takes me out of my body. Makes me forget. Makes me pretend. The structure of my face changes. My jaw sets and my mind becomes a low hum. Steady, deep, quiet. I cannot be shaken. Cannot be touched. I feel my strongest then. My most powerful. Because dissociation and denial are the tools that built my foundation and it is comfortable here.
But there is a cost. There is a cost to severing the string between heart and head. The one that maybe never existed. It means living a numbed life. One were there is no memory. Not of my mother, or the hands that hurt me. Not of sweet nicknames or the color of his eyes. Not of hir hand in mine or how it felt when I realized she loved me. It means burying love deep when it’s gone. Never consciously letting go. So my heart, my body, is full of unnamed scars and files. Ones that resurface daily, spill out and go unclaimed.
So there is learning to be done. Learning how to feel a loss fully while it’s happening. Learning to have patience with this healing that takes so much longer. It means getting curious about how I am loved and treated and left. Allowing myself questions instead of walls. It means letting people matter enough to be honest about their effect on me. It means mourning and living at the same time. It means learning the map to my own heart and trusting myself enough to share it. It means ripping up the foundation of this house that was never home and allowing myself to be found.
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