Trauma, Truth & Trust

I am exhausted, sitting on the sofa. My friend ever so gently picks up one of my feet and strokes it softly. His tenderness and love flowing into me make my heart burst open. The trauma I am holding in my cells is triggered instantly.

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Being Joy

Joy. We can never take it for granted. Before the breast cancer and Steve’s murder I had a lot of joy. Mostly I recognized it on photographs and when I saw my shining eyes in the mirror, but honestly, I did not really feel it. Then the s#*% hit the fan, and joy was gone. Wham.

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I already died

(Note the past tense.) Yes, I hit the wall, I arrived at rock bottom. No, I did not want to live any more. The dark night of the soul, the darkest hour, period. The tiredness was total and overpowering; I let myself be tiredness personified. The next session with my psychotherapist:

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Tired.

I am tired, so tired of all this. I am tired of being asked what’s next. I am tired of talking and thinking about what happened.

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