The body really does remember what we ourselves forget…
Tuesday, right away and all day I was anxious in this certain, specific way that usually means there’s a pent-up emotion that needs to come out. It’s frankly a bit miserable because I just have to ride it out until it releases. Usually it’s not something that’s in the forefront of my mind, instead a sneak attack of some repeat feeling that’s snowballed.
I went to bed with it still churning, not letting my mind turn off to sleep. Thoughts of last summer came to mind, first memories that were good, then ways I felt so alone. But then intermixed was this grief from several summers ago.
I recalled sharply how shaken I was. I co-opted my parents on a North Shore trip for a change of scenery. That night, I did my best to sob quietly on the floor on the mattress from the roll away bed we had to order to the hotel room. I was scared to be alone with such immense pain, it felt like it was swallowing me.
That grief was so deep it took years to feel some semblance of normalcy. So intense it still reemerges with pieces I haven’t sat with, like the heaviness of that night on that mattress on the floor. So intense because I had trusted someone so much who utterly shocked me. Here and there I’ve been remembering the crazy-making of that time. How not myself I was, trying so hard to make sense of a thing that just wouldn’t make sense.
A thing that all started in late June, several summers ago. And my body remembered before I could.
