I am envisioning pink, a pale pink. Also a light brown with hues of copper and bronze. I am envisioning white lace sandwiched between the two layers. A brooch. I realize it is a cameo brooch that is conjuring in my mind. I am holding tight to Teddy, my grounding. I am grounding like Dr. Hui-Wee said, fighting to bring myself back to the present moment- to safety. I am left alone to relax, and I envision yellow- the brightest and purest yellow imaginable. Not the hokey mustard color of the house down the street, or even that of dandelions. Consuming the backs of my eyelids is the yellowist of yellows, overwhelming. I presume it an aftereffect of the painful red lightning bolts that coursed through my sight after angrily rubbing my eyes. Why did I have to rub so hard? Why couldn’t I stop? Did I think that it would stop the flow of tears– did I think I’d wake up?
I’m not certain what’s just happened. I know that I was there for the ordeal, but I don’t feel connected with the reflection across the room. Her hair is unruly, her clothing skewed. Blotches of red freckle her face and chest. Heaves and sobs from moments ago have diluted to shallow and raspy breathing. I understand that this is me, but some greater part of my consciousness fails to make a meaningful connection. And so I stare, voyeuristically, feeling somewhat ashamed to being doing so. I know there should be more going on below the surface; I’m aware of my malfunctions. I want quite terribly to attempt to source the reasoning for this blown fuse, but “it’s complicated”, I’m told. There was a lot of damage done, so tracing the cause of any one specific attack will be difficult, I’m told. The word “dissociation” comes to mind. Old habits die hard, I suppose.
I am thinking of the yellowist of yellows. I am holding fast to Teddy, my grounding for as long as I can remember, and even further back than that. I am bringing myself back, leaving the past and “why now?”‘s behind. I falling in reverse– up the rabbit hole instead of down, now. It feels wrong, even though I know it’s right. Even though I see the light ahead– the purest yellow. This is “progress” but I desperately want to “regress” and “repress”. I feel weak. My body does not seem to have any weight to it, and yet I cannot move. The attack came on suddenly, unexpectedly, as they always do. I trudge out of bed, uprooting myself and grounding on the couch. I hastily write out a haphazard post to share with the world. It is raw. As am I. It is a draft. As am I. It is imperfect. As am I.
It is no good. Nor am I. But it is the best I can do; I apologize. I wish desperately to explain myself, but I cannot. Not even to myself…
— — —
‘I can’t explain myself, I’m afraid, sir’ said Alice, ‘because I’m not myself, you see.’
‘I don’t see,’ said the Caterpillar.
‘I’m afraid I can’t put it more clearly,’ Alice replied very politely, ‘for I can’t understand it myself to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.’
— — —