“fruitless”

If trauma lives in the short-term memory, and if this town is full of literally nothing but triggers, how do I move on? I remove myself from the triggers, right?

Why can’t it be that simple?

It does feel as if I am working something through me. I am reflecting on my time as a young woman in a way that I simply didn’t have the capacity for until now. I don’t know how else to explain it. For the most part it’s a good thing. The “what ifs” are the most annoying, though. They’re rarely productive. It’s not difficult to imagine how horribly wrong things could have gone. But it still feels like a piece of me was…. I’m not sure how to put it….just…a piece of me that could have been, was not. Is not. And that is just something I will always grapple with. Has it shaped me? Of course. But I try to take the way it affects me with grace and stride.

I have flashbacks of waking up to him lying on my stomach. That’s the most common symptom of PTSD, apparently—flashbacks. I used to get them all the time. The way that I trained my brain to pull me into an alternate reality—a reality that has come and gone and literally no longer exists and holds no bearing on my current life. But again, that’s how trauma works. My brain looks for context, not relevance. 

I don’t remember if it was before or after I had made my “decision.” I do remember very vehemently pushing him off of me, though.

“What is happening? This can’t be real. This can’t be real.” 
Seeded. 
Sown. 
Growing. 
Fertile. 
“Now you want me? This what makes me worthy? Now I’m special to you?”  

For a long time I felt that we had become connected during that time, and that we would forever have that tie to one another. But I think even back then I recognized the hypocrisy in that sentiment. Even then, we both knew that “connection” was not right. Toxic? Perhaps. Now that I understand what it was and wasn’t, I must remember now that it simply is not. It is gone, the good and the bad. The sweet and the bitter. There is no residual taste. No scraps, no seeds, no rinds. Nothing at all.

“This is what gets your attention?” 
         
I knew it then, and I know it now—that ‘connection’ was not and is not real. That ‘connection’ was a trap. Another one. Regardless of whether or not either of us realized it. I wanted out, and you did not, would not, let me go until I forced my way out. At some point I convinced myself it was by my own choice, or perhaps fate. I convinced myself that all of these “connections” pointed to some unspoken reason that we kept stumbling back into each other’s orbit. But it wasn’t so much a connection as it was an addiction.
           
I did not want that. I never wanted that. And I still feel so goddamn guilty for not giving you that.  
Sour. Bitter, hollowed, bruised. 
Tart. Seedless.  
Overripe. 
Potent. 
Acrid. 
Futile. 
Fruitless. 
           
Still.

Still, I find myself praying to the very same god that I no longer worship. Perhaps because I need the reminder. I need the mantra. I need the weight of a larger power outside of myself to honor the magnitude of how different my life would be if this one thing had gone differently. How else do I do that?

How else do I offer up my deep and utter gratitude for having gone through what is sure to be one of the most horrible/grueling/enlightening/empowering/invasive experiences of my life?

I thank god that I am no longer tied to you. I thank god that this “bond” was only temporary; never truly nurtured, never encouraged to grow, blossom, flourish, and bear fruit. Surely that fruit would have been just as toxic as the two of us together.

I thank god that my labor was, is, and will always be my own to give.  Those fruits were never grown. And god…thank god…your seed is not mine to sow.