The Coves - Pond - London, Ontario, Canada

Yeah, So Who Gets To Come Through The Hedgerow?

Sitting out on the stoop earlier this afternoon, watching the village go by, as I distract myself from the panic attack I was having. Various cars pulling into the bank, only to find it closed, amuses me. Like some secret only I know, and have no way of warning them, nor would I, if I could.

Watch as the little girl blows bubbles out front, as they drift by, all rainbows and sunshine, her golden hair tied back in a loose ponytail, out front in the sun. A beautiful spring day.

Then later on I watch as this small spider dangles from one thin thread, upset down, swinging in the gentle breeze.

And I take a sip of tea.

The panic began as I was returning from a walk down to the coves. Could feel the tightness in my chest, clench in the belly, the slight faint feeling, the kaleidoscope vision. Came in the door, put everything away, untied Pika, and I laid down, but that didn’t work.

So, I grabbed some tea and went out on the stoop, to get some fresh air. To clear the air. To stop all the thinking. Distracted by strangers going by.

Realized, not just today, but in the last few days, I do believe my mom’s friend may be right. I have PTSD.

From, well, from, let me see. Could be the old Roger.the.dodger 10 years of his negligence towards his severe childhood trauma that haunted our life together. Or, maybe it was the 4 years with the borderline psychopath Tim? Could be. Could be.

Or, now, let’s not forget being raped by that lawyer guy.

Then came ol’ He didn’t stand a chance.

I told him, btw, it wasn’t his fault. He didn’t do anything wrong, spewed out in disjointed lines of text, after that walk, as I felt the anxiety in my chest dissipate, breathing between the lines, I confessed. It was simple. Maybe even he was simple.

Well, sure, frankly he did everything wrong. But his wrongness really only followed on Achilles heel of the ghosts of past wrongs, and I just broke, and I stuffed it, and him, and how he made me feel, and his obsession with all his pain. His unavailability. His toying with me. My obsessive desire for him, slowly, gently, disappeared, into the friendship of Crossroads.Man, the bike.guy. Over time. And then he left.

All too much, I suppose. So I stuffed it inside, way inside, with caring, loving, feeling, touching, I hid them away with him. Attached them with glue and buried them.

This time, after 6 years, he comes back for some more, and it all crashed through the barriers I had erected, stormed the gates, and here we are.

Panic attack. Gut-wrenching ache.

Broken desire.

Reaching out costs me everything, and I seem to be left with nothing. But, that’s my wounded heart talking.

See, I have that sense that over the last few years, I’ve not effectively dealt with this ache. This rape and fear of feeling things, and hiding from what I most desire. For fear of what it will, could, maybe, do to me.

This intense desire and darkness still lurked inside me, but I went forward anyway, day by day, embraced solitude here in my secret garden, surrounded by north light shadows, and houseplants. And no men. Nada. None. None at all came inside, after Crossroads.Man.

Safe in my space, few folks ventured through my hedgerow, but friends and family.

Well, until last Thursday at 5:15 PM when his emotional detachment and poison passion hidden behind his blue eyes, that I forgot, poked through.

Dancing back and forth at my door, says hi, backed away, bounced a little forward, I was holding the door, trying to draw him inside. Decked out in my bath robe, gaping open, black bra peeking out, Pika resting on my arm, with no teeth in my mouth, cause I thought it was Sandy, as her and I were going to a play that night about some Amish growing weed.

Anywho, my theory is that all those entangled things just got all wrapped around him, stuck in his dirty blond hair, broken heart and swaggering walk. But all that was shoved deep inside, until Monday morn after we danced, and he spun me around, later laying his head in my lap Sunday afternoon, stroking his hair, gently running my fingertips down his back.

I had forgotten him. Whole swaths of memories, wiped clean

This time, I don’t want to forget him. Not this time. I want to remember everything. Every detail, all the lines on his face, his height, the feel of him wrapped around me, inside me, and the way he spun me round to the songs the band played.

Remember that intimacy, that triggers me, that opens up old wounds in me.

Yet, in such proximity? Is that wise? I don’t know.

Face it. See it. Look right at it. Know it. Allow this pain to flow through me, out of me, let it breathe, and release it from me.

Day after day I’ve felt it leave me. Retching it, here, I suppose. Expelling it. Day after day.

Acknowledging it. Embracing my desire for his naked body. If, not actually embracing. Let it go. Let the control of these feelings go. Give into fear, eventually. Slowly. Let that darkness heal me, over time.

So, who does get to come through the hedgerow?

Well, I don’t know.

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