I've gone dark. Incommunicato. I shut down when hit with emotional sniper fire and I unknowingly stepped onto a land mine recently. I've definitely not been maintaining homeostasis because, well, sometimes survival mode just takes precedence.
To some people, life is an extended dining table of delectable delights. Sumptious pleasures bursting with flavour, ripe for the taking from a shimmering crystal-cut bowl. In my world, life is the tablecloth that is yanked out from under me. This maneovure has typically been exucuted neatly, efficiently and always without warning.
I will not post the personal details of my latest brush with shell-shock. I will not embarrass anyone who is a constant in my life. That being said, I was hit with a hand-grenade that, temporarily, rocked my world. I never claimed to be a soldier. My preferred method of coping is to curl into a fetal position until a ceasefire has been declared.
This attack on me was unjustified, untrue and just plain old mean. I cried, I sniffled, I blew my nose and spent an alarming amount of time spooning with my husband.
Such attacks on my character propel me into a spiral of self-doubt and intense, painful self-recrimination. There is a reason that I blame myself, rather than my attacker. This is a dysfunctional, yet typical reaction to childhood molestion. And, that story is fodder for a novel, not a blog. Or, perhaps, a blog-ograhpy.
To my credit, it took me 2 1/2 days to crawl out of my self-made fox-hole as opposed to 3 or 4, which was a given in years past. So, progress is being made, albeit in small increments. No one ever said healing is a linear process.
War? What is it good for? Absolutely nothing.