Down the Rabbit Hole

Damage

I've been staring at this little white blog box for half an hour. I ached the entire ride in, ached to sit at my computer and force the feelings out, purge my mind of the bad thoughs and nagging doubts. I welcomed the distance that my commute afforded me this morning. I welcomed the physical distance the pavement put between us almost as much as the emotional chasm that cracked open and began to spread. "Shut up, Bitch", the words echoed in my hollow head as the rain beat against my windshield and the tires covered the miles between the safety of my desk and dark bedroom. It didn't even matter that the words weren't followed by physical blows or that a different man said them. It didn't matter that they weren't followed by a stream of spittle hitting my cheek or a rough arm wrapped around my wrist. It didn't matter that he told me to "fuck myself" for the countless time or that the words were nothing more than angry expressions uttered in frustration. It was enough that they were hissed, hissed at me with venom in the dark. It was enough that I had brought another man to the brink of hatred when days, hours, moments ago he'd been my family. "Shut up Bitch", the words had wormed down into my gut. Fingers of memory seeking out the tender wounds and ripping them open to seep and to fester again. Open wounds that leaked and oozed a toxin of degradation and hopelessness into my bloodstream. Wounds that I am convinced have now become part of my soul, unhealing. It didn't matter that he wasn't the same person, because I was.
I don't know why the fight even started. I suppose it was my fault, those things usually are. Even during the times when they are not, its far easy to accept the blame that try to breach the wall that is his sense of rightness. But I would admit, it was likely spawned by me. Impatience with him had yielded to frustration and a sidelong comment had become a reason to war, through the dining room, up the narrow staircase, behind closed doors so as not to upset his visiting mother. Then the words, spat out but in a frantic, jagged whisper-yell. And the fight instantly became something more to me, not to him of course, afterall he is not nearly so damaged. I wish I could have written last night. If I could have sat, carassing the keys of my familiar laptop I would have rid myself of the poisons in private than here, plagued by the interruptions of my coworkers seeking mundane things and answers to all the most obvious questions. "Shut up bitch", so surprising that such words could plunge me back down into a pit I thought I'd crawled out of so many time. I will never heal. No one will ever be able make me right again. Pieces permanently scattered. Damaged.