March 4, 2018

tongue of fire

I think that what happened in Acts to the apostles in the story of Pentecost - the tongues of fire descending upon each of them - was way cooler than having the drool-coated, slimy tongue of depression landing on the top of your head with a squish sound.  It doesn't know the rule about never touching my hair.

Yesterday morning, I went from peaceful to rock-bottom within minutes, faster than I could say, "Oh shit, I'm crashing."  I felt my sense of humor run and hide in its secret recesses as my vision of P.J. clouded.  Suddenly, instead of the treasure I was nurturing post-surgery, she was the treasure I was protecting through the urge to make sure she didn't have to be around me.

I tried to stay by her side, but I got frustrated while working on the new blog header, and the depression exponentially amplified the frustration, and when P.J. gave some helpful input, I snapped at her in a raised voice.  She always says my version of yelling or snapping is like having a kitten nomming on your finger before it has its teeth, but Lille punished me severely for putting us at risk of disapproval, even if that disapproval didn't actually happen.  Then P.J. spoke and I woke with a start, and I found that I'd been asleep on the living room couch, my hands gripping a blanket white-knuckled, to keep from hitting or clawing myself.  I always drop to sleep when I fight back against Lille, instead of letting her have free rein, if I can do so safely, and I usually can.  It's nifty how often there's a couch or love seat or nice patch of unoccupied floor in the vicinity.

If I can't take refuge in sleep, I have to sit on my hands and let her rage spend itself until the deafening battle in my head subsides.  It takes more than a few minutes.  Something happened to her that makes it compulsory that no one ever, ever have cause to rebuke or punish her.  Us.  Me.  Is it any wonder a therapist is never going to help me recover an explanatory memory?  I can't have things touching my wrists or neck.  A loose shirt collar touching the wrong spot on my chest can make me feel like I'm suffocating.  I can't have a person's hand near my face.  I forget whether it's a stranger's hand or a loved one's hand and I knock it away forcefully and gasp for air.  Isn't it enough to take the evidence, all the marks and manifestations that whatever was done to me branded, and leave it at that?  Why do I have to know?

Before last night, I hadn't wanted to self-injure in six months or more, months before I began blogging, even with the mild depression swings, and stupidly, I had begun to consider complacency.  Depression steals in.  Drops out of nowhere.  Squish.  And for as long as this interval lasts, I have to be on guard, battle-weary but vigilant against the Liar and the Rage, the stinging nettles and Lille's tongue of knife and fire.

She's a child.  She'd execute me before letting anyone touch her again.  I'm a liability.  She doesn't understand that I'd take her with me.

She doesn't understand that depression lies and makes the shadows loom larger and spooky, the floorboards creak, the wind howl outside.  Smoke and mirrors.

She doesn't understand that no one can harm her now.  She won't crawl into my waiting lap and arms and trust me to protect her.  Warriors stand their ground.

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