There are moments when I lose the thread. When I forget where I am going. When I can’t locate myself the only consoling thought is, “Well at least I’m not creating chaos out there”.
The ice-packs are so cold on my thighs that they almost burn. There I am. Right there in that pleasant pain. There’s a body here. My body. The tears stream down silently. No sobs.
In Doom Patrol there is a perpetually (or so it first seems) eleven-year-old girl named Dorothy. As the subject of cruel ridicule and discrimination for her deformity, Dorothy turns inward for companionship, creating fantastic imaginary friends which she can bring to life via innate psychic abilities. The problem is that she can manifest a creature that can tear the universe asunder as easily as she can manifest a flower. This sweet child is kept a prisoner for much of her life. She is, unintentionally, dangerous.
There are moments when I stop tending to the child. Who could be vigilant 24/7? Who doesn’t get tired or hungry despite their best efforts?In these moments I doubt my…endeavor. Am I doing something to helpful or simply imprisoning him?
I often feel like reaching out but I do not trust myself. If I’m feeling anything intensely then I stay away. Unfortunately I feel intensely so often that I end up speaking to nobody. I wish I could hire a nanny or a babysitter. I need a break too. I have heard parents talk about how they go bonkers interacting with their children too much. They crave adult conversation and connection. In this case I am both the child and the adult and I’m going bonkers.
There’s the intensity. I can feel it rising up. I focus my attention on the ice packs; on my thighs. They no longer burn but I can steel feel the coldness numbing my thighs. There I am again. Okay. Intensity momentarily quelled.
I could dust my bookshelves. I think I will dust my bookshelves. I really hate dusting books and bookshelves. So I should do it. It will feel good when I am finished.