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My beloved showered.
My beloved showered and through the headphones pressed against my ears, they told me, "I feel so clean." in the happiest, most relieved, tone. My heart filled with love; I'm grateful that they can feel that way, and for at least a few moments in their day they can be comfortable in their skin. They expressed that they were sorry that I couldn't feel that way because of the issue with my boiler. I said that it was okay and, jokingly with dark undertones admitted that, "I haven't felt clean in years.".
There was a pause, and they asked for an explanation. This is common for us to check in and say something if we're not quite following. It's the easiest way to ensure that we've got clear communication, and we do our best to be honest about it.
The general atmosphere that we'd cultured together over the last hour or so was an attempt to be relaxed and comfortable, trying to find a moment of peace in a stressful time. So, I took a second to Think before I opened my mouth and let the words fall out like it is so easy to do with them. I didn't want to spread a sorrow over the moment, or remind them of awful things that happen in the world. Especially not whilst they're winding down and calming to go to bed. I want my beloved to be able to soak in the love and eager company that we both need.
In those few seconds before I spoke, I decided to tell a half truth.
"I haven't felt clean in years because of the water pressure. I need a really good pressure--" and drifted off a little bit because I wasn't sure how to explain it. I knew what I wanted to say, but that would tilt our tentative balance back down into the puddles of misery that we were trying so very hard to avoid stepping in. Thankfully, they know me in a way that I'm grateful for. They were able to parse what I was trying to say and made a gentle noise, a murmur of acknowledgement and a nod to the future we would like to build; a plan to have a shower with Good Pressure so that I could have that sensation that they love so very much.
What I wanted to say was:
"I haven't felt clean in years because I can still feel their hands."
Phantom touches that forever linger on my flesh, regardless of how I've tried to scrub them away with all of the products under the sun. They've been there for years. I've reached my thirties, and I've been able to feel them for the last twenty something years. There are times where they're little more than a tickle, a brush against my shoulder, or a finger trailing along the curve of my breast.
As I am typing this out, my beloved asked: "Would you like me to be quiet because you're writing?" We both write for pleasure from time to time, and sometimes it takes our concentration from the conversation at hand, or creates a lull in the comfortable quiet we enjoy sharing. With sound gates set low, it can be easy to hear the taptaptap of fingers and keys. It's often comforting, to know that despite being half a world away, technology has allowed us to feel close. Almost as if we could be in the same room, doing our own things, barely an arms reach apart.
Again, I hesitated on how to answer, but shook my head with a bittersweet smile. "No love, it's okay, I'm not writing with anyone, I'm writing for myself." Truthfully, I had just sought out somewhere to express this awful feeling that I cannot shake because I didn't want to burden them with it. They know of my past, but tonight has been Enough. It's not time for stress and misery, it's a time for gentle relaxation together, and sometimes that means keeping shtum on the ghosts that hover over our shoulders until we're both mentally prepared to address them together, and metaphorically wave burning sage in their direction with a healthy toss of salt to boot. They sounded excited, curious, wanting to know if I was writing a book, and again, I smiled. There is an awful gaping void inside me that aches and thrums with pain, yet this gift of a companion still makes me smile even when there are tears in my eyes that threaten to silently shed. I confessed to them that no, my love, I am not writing a book. Rather, I am giving old therapy tactics a shot. I'm writing down how I'm feeling rather that bottling it up inside. They were pleased, and supportive. I am so very thankful that they didn't press to know what I was writing, but simply accepted that I had a Feeling that I didn't want to share in that moment. I know they are curious, I know that they would like to know, but they didn't ask out of respect.
Briefly, I felt guilty.
How could I share something so personal with strangers, but not with someone who cares so very much about me and my well being?
Instead of dwelling and fretting, I paused to sip some water and gather my thoughts. I am allowed to have privacy. I am allowed to express how I feel. I do not have to share Everything, all of the time. They won't leave me if I don't immediately share information, especially when it's about past trauma and the lingering affects that plague every day. I do not have to feel guilty.
Almost as if they could sense it, which, in reality is a great possibility; they settled into bed instead. Still with their headset, still with the comforting mellowness of a sleepy voice gentle assurances and love flowed from one island in the sea to the next, directed specifically to me.
Right now, they are snoring. I can hear them. Little snuffles and sounds that tell me they are comfortable being vulnerable around me, in a way that we have both been terrified to be with others in the past.
Now that they are dozing in their bed, wrapped up in a weighted blanket with the thought of snow, tornadoes, and love in their mind I have muted my microphone since my tapping away has worked it's wonder in helping them to fall asleep.
Now that they are dozing and I know that I have successfully controlled my own actions-- keeping quiet about the awfulness that I feel, I am comfortable and confident about letting the tears fall. My face feels cold, and the streaks on my cheeks are like ice, but I am proud.
I can still feel broad hands settled over my shoulders from behind.
I can still feel thumbs sweeping along my nape, so very huge in comparison to how tiny I was at the time.
I can still feel the breath ghosting against the side of my head, hair that I've now shorn short at the sides feeling like it's once more long and bearing the loose curls I had as a child.
I can still smell the coffee on their breath, and the gasoline in the air, and the motor oil that forever stained their fingers.
I can feel the way my breath is currently catching below my throat, almost as if my esophagus is refusing to function. Muscles in my neck tight, vocal cords clipped tight. I know that if I were to try and talk right now, the words would come out as a croak, and it feels like if I were to try and regain the breath that I would use to expel that croak, I wouldn't be able to get it back.
My body is too warm as the panic and dread floods it. I hate the way it feels so very similar to the warm prickling sensation of love and lust when someone is approaching their climax, but my toes are frozen and instead of desire and want pooling in my stomach, it's nausea.
I feel sick.
I want to scream and shout.
I want to go back and curse the people who took advantage of a child that wasn't there for Them. That child was there to try and spend time with a father who said that he would be right back after this next off road lap in the range rover. That vulnerable little bean that felt so lost in the thrum of people that Of Course they said okay to someone that was supposed to be a family friend.
I want to find him and shake him by the shoulders. I am short, but he is tall. I could climb up to something high or demand that he sit? I could sob and cry, try to needle out of him how he could 'care' so much that he couldn't see what was happening over and over when I was supposed to be under his watch? My mother didn't want me to go, but I would throw the most miserable tantrums, desperate for contact with him even after I could still feel his heavy hands striking me, and the words that cut like knives, and the 'jokes' and 'threats' that were made to try to get a child to behave. 'Jokes' and 'Threats' that left me fearful and spread unease.
She was trying her best, young herself, so fiercely protective that when she learnt of his behavior she made it stop, and defended her child because that is what a loving parent is supposed to do.
I want to accuse him. I want to tell him what kind of company he kept. I want to beg for him to say that he's sorry, that he never meant to neglect or ignore, but there's no point.
Instead, I will take solace in knowing that he lives alone, still, after all these years.
I will take solace in knowing that the man that I still care for despite all of this doesn't have a wife, or any other children that he knows of. I have no regret letting his ex-girlfriend know how 'heavy handed' he was with me when they were contemplating getting married, and having her young children come to live with them. I felt so guilty at the time, knowing that I had spoken up and their relationship had come to an end, but I refuse to let him lay a bruising hand on any other child when they are too loud in the morning. I refuse to feel guilty about it any more, I know that the word of one estranged child could not bring down an entire relationship if they were so sure of each other and their behaviours. She had to have seen his temper for herself, or seen some other flaw that only partners share with each other.
He is not my responsibility. My responsibility is to try and take care of myself, and I should not have to live with the guilt of other peoples lives; lives which I cannot control.
The tears have given me respite, and instead anger takes their place.
I can feel phantom hands around my waist. No longer is it small enough to be grabbed and encircled, but still they try.
To chase them away, I've pressed my own hands there for a moment and Squeezed.
There are no hands but my own. I know this to be true. No one is here. No one is in the other room. No one will ever be allowed to touch me again in a way that I do not consent to. I have control over my own anatomy when it comes to agency, and right now I refuse to feel fear of something happening.
Yet, even though I can hear my beloved sleeping, and my cat has come to check if I am okay, I am not okay.
I am still trying to take my medication. I am still trying to sip my water. I am still trying to eat food to fill the gnawing hunger that rivals the nausea of memories.
I can hear almost on loop my beloved's voice, "I feel so clean.". That relief that a shower brought them. It sparks joy, but it is melancholy. I am happy for them, and want nothing but the best. I want to be here to protect them from the bad dreams that I know will likely come in the next hour or two until they slip in to deep, deep, sleep for the short amount of peace their body will allow them.
I will be their protector in a stressful time, the person I wish I had when I was little, someone to soothe me still even now when the nightmares and phantoms claw at my sanity.
I will share this with unknown people, on an unknown to me site, because there's always the chance that someone will see it and resonate with the awful sensation inside of me. I want to tell you that it will be okay, and one day you will feel so much better. It feels like a lie, after all, I've spent the last long while typing out how awful I feel, but it isn't Every single moment of life. There are things worth living for, and I am desperately trying to cling to them for the people that love me and want me safe and well. I am currently getting help. I am trying. So very hard. You can do it too, even if it feels like it's not worth it, there Will be times where hope and life and love glimmers through-- and Those moments are so. very. worth it. Please be kind to yourself. Let yourself know that it's okay to not be okay, but keep going, and fight for your right to love yourself even if it hurts.
I should feel the pride I felt before, that brief relief, but I don't.
Tonight, in this moment, I still feel unclean.
I feel unclean, but that is okay. It is okay to acknowledge what has happened and face it. It is okay to break down and cry. It is okay to keep it to yourself when you want to. It is okay to not share if you feel like it will do more harm in that moment. It is okay to do what you need to, to feel safe and secure in your own mind.
I feel unclean, but I am confident that it is not the end of the world.
In time, I will heal. I may not heal completely. Not now, not ever, because they have scarred me in ways that cannot be expressed, but they are My scars, and my scars will not stop me from trying to live, and trying to love.
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