How do you live in the desert? How do you find comfort while being engulfed by the intensity of grief and sadness, like waves of suffocating heat? I am not sure if I have been living in this desert, or just surviving. I haven’t tried to thrive, to flourish, to grow, just get through.
Nothing feels self-sustaining in this desert. Nothing comes easy. And nothing stays. And even if it did, I would avoid it. Permanence seems so malice now that the truth of impermanence has made itself known. Now that I know the terror of forever in its only true form: death.
The sheer panic of waking up and realizing you are still gone, you will always and forever still be gone. Why would would I want to pretend that anything good is permanent. I know it is a lie. I know the truth of this lie in my bones.
– – –
I hope in time this desert will grow quiet. That the loudspeaker that is my thoughts will be be muted and I will be able to hear my heart more clearly. Be able to just focus on all the love I still have for you, all the hurt and sadness your leaving has caused. I hope the quiet will bring us closer together again.
In solitude, I want to be engulfed by your memory. I want to sit in the silence until I can smell you, until I can feel you, until I can hear you. I want solitude to bring me back into relation with you. I want emptiness to fill me with your presence. And then we can be alone, together.
– – –
I know where I live. I know this terrain of trauma that is my body. I know the aches and pains that orchestrate how I move through the world. I have studied the waves of panic and mania that flood my lands. I can feel them coming, gaining strength; I can predict their paths. I am the student of my trauma.
I know where I live. I have mapped out the holes in my heart. The big ones, the small ones, the aching ones, the slippery ones. I know how to walk these plains and not fall in. I know which holes need to be sat with, the holes that need my care, my presence, my acknowledgement and acceptance. I am the keeper of my trauma.
I know where I live. I find comfort in the familiarity of surviving. I find comfort in knowing how to explore this trauma body. I know new holes, new currents, new aches, new affects are coming and I know how to get to know them. I am the witness for my trauma.
I know where I live. And I know it’s not going to change overnight. I would be homesick if I woke a new person, a new land, a new terrain. I would miss the familiarity of my body, no matter how pained, how sad, how manic. I have never been an easy body to live in, and I am my own comfort, my own safety, my own grounding. I am the home for my trauma.