I am grocery shopping and trauma response

"I am not your way out of yourself."

                                         ~After Megha Rao

A trauma response cripples you in places you never know existed. It is only when you confront it that you know you are throwing yourself back into the same cocoon which you have built to shield yourself from the vagaries of everyday life. That cocoon is your safe space. It's your defensive mechanism. It's where you are your most comfortable self. It's the guard you put on to save yourself from the hurt.

You believe it's better this way until you realize that your heart still feels heavy. It's still not at peace. It's thwarting all your hopes of building that real intimacy with the other self, outside of you and within you, which you always dreamt of.

It's quite ironic how we dream of the same things we choose to escape from.

I try chanting this, obsessively, many times over : 

He is a different person.

He is a different person.

He is a different person.

Repetition helps with understanding. Sometimes you just need that because it helps.

So, when I tell you that "it's okay", that "please pull yourself back" from going down that road even if there is no road in sight, I want you to know that I pray for your safe return every day, that there is not a single day I do not think of you. I want you to know that I know, I feel all your extra loud colors, all your "I can very well cut my own cake" shit.

So, take it from me, you won't heal, my curses won't let you heal if you don't realize that I am so much fucking more than your emergency pills, fucked-up pregnancy kits, half burnt cigar stubs, abortion clinics, anxiety meds, a manless woman in gloomy attics.

I am the essence of the blood when I menstruate.

I am the sweet flashbacks of your young love that you should have kept but didn't.

I am your mirrored, stupid sentences that you thought were too simple to put your feelings into words.

I want you to know that they are the most beautiful ones to put all the literary intellectuals to shame.

I am the pangs when the world broke your heart for the very first time. When you learnt to type only short replies and react all too late. 

I am your swirling head.

I am your suppressed rage.

I am your drugged high.

On days, you feel like doing nothing, totally worthless and struggle to mask it with that much-desired economic face, I want you to know that I am your sin that you can't translate in the tongue of your male camaraderie.