Wild Things

The nightmares are back.  Maybe it was seeing the domestic violence awareness placards positioned at the gate on my way work, daily reminders of the way things were.  Maybe it was receiving copies of the hospital records documenting the fractures in my hip and pubic symphysis from my "fall" down "stairs" in our one story home.  Maybe it was seeing him daily at the boys' soccer practices and games, having him park his car next to mine, sit behind me on the bleachers, eavesdrop on my conversations with the other soccer moms because the protective order does not state a distance he must maintain.  Does the reason matter?  The results are the same.  The minute I fall asleep, that drifting, peaceful place in between conscious and subconscious, I am jerked upright by an unbidden memory.  I don't recall that I was even asleep, and blissfully, I do not the recall the horror that has ripped me out of semi-consciousness.

This monstrous, half-place is like a train diverted.  I had expected to arrive in peaceful slumber and instead I am in a horrific place where my subconscious tries to bring to the surface the memories that I cannot, that I refuse to give voice.  Instead, they howl and clash in my dreams.  "Said the Wild Things, 'I'll eat you up!'"  In the morning, I am tired with the lingering dread of something not quite right with the world. 

And then I am angry.  Angrier than angry.  Furious.  Angry at It for taking 16 years of my life and continuing to eat away at the time I have left.  Angrier with me for giving those years away.  With the anger comes embarrassment.  How dare I feel sorry for myself when I have managed to escape, have broken the cycle with my children?

Being a "victim" sucks.