Numbness
Time passed as if I were carelessly scrolling through my life.
My house became a room and quickly enough that room became a bed.
Paralysed, as if I had mistakenly pressed on standby. Not pause, but stand by.
Standing by. Waiting for a sign, waiting for hope, waiting for someone to reach into the holes.
Waiting for myself to heal.
Scars had been torn too open, slashed. Blood kept gushing while flesh exposed bones that should have never seen the light of day. Physically unable to get up, rise under the coat of anger, sadness, resentment, hatred that was sewn over me.
Unable to move. Barely able to take care of myself.
Those sheets, agglomerated yarn of cotton thread; these pillows, home to the sea and these blankets had become my only refuge from what slumbered in between evil tongues.
Bed rotting is a sign of depression.
Days and nights kept passing by. I did nothing. I stood by. I waited, without moving for my scars to start healing. Slowly, as slow as death can be. As soon as blood stopped running I tried to stand. Standing in a room. I reached for pen and paper. I completely lost myself in words, ink and tears. I wrote for hours on end. I wrote through the hours of night. I wrote whilst people kept living.
I wrote about numbness.
Numbness is a trauma related coping mechanism.
I remember that time I was in the salon reading a book on the Roman Empire. It was a summer evening of many years ago. The book was a summer assignment but I was finding it really interesting. As I was sitting on the wrought iron chair, the paint of which had been peeled on some points, I read voraciously through the chapters.
“Sacrifices in Ancient Rome”
Chapter a bit raw for an elementary school book but I kept reading.
“The Romans thought that deities would appreciate their sacrifices, it was the only way to keep them happy and not to attract their ruthless anger. They started with spilling their blood”
I felt something hot on my leg. I was completely alone in that room. I looked down to see a drop of blood that had dragged down half of my calf. Naivly I wiped off the blood with my hand, thinking I had accidentally scratched the scar of a mosquito bite. Little did I know. As I scraped off the last speck of blood I couldn’t find the place it came from. I scanned my leg, nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Panic started rushing in my veins, I quickly got up and as if nothing had happened I rushed to a more populated room.
I’m scared.
I open my room’s door. A gust of warm air runs through me, I go downstairs to the kitchen to make some dinner.
