One of my favorite things to do is curl up on the couch with my head in Bug’s lap and let him play with my hair. Sometimes, he reads to me and sometimes he rubs my head. Either way, I love being cared for – who doesn’t?
I can never fully enjoy it. Never fully relax, because my brain never turns off. It races constantly – even with my medication.
It is, in a way, a type of hell. I ruminate over the past, ignore the present, and worry about the future.
I beat myself up a lot. Too much, according to my therapist. She believes I need to forgive myself so that I can forgive Bug, and that I need to stop looking for forgiveness from others.
It’s really not that easy. This pain I have, it’s like picking a scab over-and-over. I know I shouldn’t and yet I can’t stop. I search out things that hurt me – pictures, old blog posts, Facebook flashbacks. They all tear at my heart.
But slowly, dates and memories are slipping away, and the images I once had seared into my mind are fading.
Over the past three years I’ve learned there comes a point when talking about the hurt does nothing. There’s no emotion, no feelings. Just the numbness of forgetting. It’s a dark hole where something used to be, but I don’t remember what it was.
And I guess that’s the best I’m going to get for now.