and still we tell our stories, text, 2021 (excerpts from ongoing text piece)

Care started one day, all of a sudden: out of love, necessity, but more out of love. I had never thought of care as an interspecies act until one of my own kind and blood taught me this - not with words, but by doing which was required of me: practice, everyday doing situated in a time and space. 

*

breathing doesn’t come naturally. The day began with harbouring the taste most familiar to my ancestors, under my tongue. Wormwood. Dolphins can commit suicide by deciding to stop breathing and thus suffocating, sinking, dying. 

is it the cold air perhaps that’s causing these pains all over my head? Like the muscles of my body seizing up after swimming in cold water. Anticipating yet another invitation to take a dip, i reply, in my head, my fibromyalgia doesn’t like it. What if, instead of fighting her, i fed, and nurtured, and cared for her? She is me, a me within me, and i am not my body. 

*

somewhat surprisingly, thinking and working through long-term trauma is helped by my very own body - this adaptable, malleable, and much more flexible system one tends to underestimate; i wake up late, in the afternoon, sometimes as late as 2pm and rarely make it out the house to meet the sun, when he shows; i go to bed late, in the early hours of the morning; this began not by choice but out of necessity, and resistance and frustration were the natural - cerebral, reactions to this at first; with time, i have stopped resisting; i began to wonder if my body is adapting to the situation which i cannot escape, as a way of temporary measure, to spend fewer hours awake when the indoor air is most unpleasant - heavy, passive-aggressive, abrasive, at a time when spending those hours outside is not yet possible - it’s still winter and the outside air and the ground are icy (hold out until the spring comes); instead, my body keeps me awake at night when there is a blissful quiet; nightingales keep me company then. Trauma gives the greatest gift.

it is infinitely difficult to write about the things you are still living through; a brief mention or an allusion to, a hint... but not a full disclosure; as i write this, i wonder, does “living through” happen or perhaps this is as good as paying “when this pandemic is over”; as long as the body and mind are living then some part of trauma is also living; where does the memory of abuse settle?

what is at stake? to give visibility to difficult things, such as domestic abuse in its non-physical form - which, much like hidden disability, is not seen, in a way that does not harm in the process; otherwise, it is easy to re-injure oneself emotionally.

 

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