Trigger

You can’t help but go down the rabbit hole.  Again.  You warned yourself, set caution, but you just don’t listen.  The hole is too big and your vision too blind.  There is no time to grab your crayons, or start a lavender bath.  If you sit and breathe, you will implode.

Bam.  You pull the trigger and you don’t even know it.  You’re firing bullets at the world around you, colored in sepia and black and white.  There is fear clawing at your insides, turning  to rage as it seeps out in froth, sweat, and screams.  All reason is gone.  You are on your own, without a life vest, drowning in the vast ocean of emotions too familiar.  You put yourself on pause and hit fast rewind.

The victim comes out and begs to be heard.  You are so very misunderstood – a walking lunatic, repeating the same cycles.  But to you, everyone is a predator and you’re fighting for your very own life, to save or forget a memory.

You are young again, asking for help in the form of rebellion because now you can.  Now, expression is possible, speak-able, yell-able, and sometimes, even fucking throw-able.  Now is your chance to set things straight.  To make things right.  To be seen.  You have resurfaced and you want to speak your truth; truth that at one point was stuck in your throat and hairballed out, only to be tucked away behind the medicine cabinet filled with anti-depressants, or the liquor cabinet, filled with fine wine.  You are not self-medicating.  Only clearing yourself of the past.  Your runaway plan is accepted because everyone else is running too.  They like you calm and thunder-less and only ask for the occasional ocean breeze.  Just so they know you’re still here.

You only want to know that it’s ok.  You want to hear it.  You yearn for them to see right through you, to see the plea in your eyes to be held.  You silently beg for their compassion.  You are literally fighting for love.  Sometimes, you’re even flighting for love.

You breathe the past, digest it, and store it away in your fat cells.  Your belly grows on memories, but you don’t remember.  There is only the now and the history of the world happens in this moment, in the now-to-now present.  You summon yourself back, shining the light down the hole where you found no rabbits.

As you crawl back up, you’re hoping that they’ll understand, that they will love you and embrace your return, no matter what.  You pray that you have not yet pushed them away.  You pray that the wounds will heal.  Next time, you will know, your promise.  Next time, you will see the bigger picture.  Next time, you will be in time.  In the meantime, you will try to remember.

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