The Window Bangs

coffee and a blank page

[TW for discussion of rape, PTSD.]


I write about my past in order to rebuild my present. I dredge my brain for what scraps remain, until I have enough pieces that something coherent emerges. When it does, I seize it in words like an lepidopterist pinning a recent capture to a cardboard tag, where it flutters briefly and then dies. Where it can then be studied.

I write things down so I can stop revisiting a past that happened. When I talk to friends, I am not remembering. I am telling you about a thing I wrote.

I have been repeating this process consciously since last October, and the day almost exactly a year ago when I sat on my therapist’s couch and said, “I think I remember the first time I dissociated. I know I remember hearing a pop in my head and then it wasn’t my body. I think…

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