Safe in the desert


There is a safe

with lots of draws

with codes only I know

in a desert far away

where I can teleport myself

but where my memories are exiled to

The intrusive ones

The ugly ones

The ones of my father

sleeping with me

touching me

The ones of my mother

telling me what I did in my past lives

how I killed my sister

how I escaped from my father’s basement

and so he killed himself

My methods of survival

My splitting

My twin brother who protected me

My happy place is my flying

So much flying when I was young

With my unicorn friends

White, pink, yellow, blue unicorns

I now am learning to deal with my memories when I want to. I do not have to deal with every thought as it comes, if it disturbs me. I need to know that what will save me is my stability and my sanity. The wound needs to be looked at. The screaming child needs to be comforted. The sad little girl needs to be nurtured. She needs to know I believe her, even though her mother didn’t. She needs to know she is right, she does remember correctly, even if it is dark and pre-verbal.

We watch disney movies. They relax her. They make me laugh. They make her happy. They make me cry. I find them layered and interesting. I am aware of their shortcomings and appreciate their genius. I am so glad they exist.

I am tired. I am focusing on being stable. I feel like I am sliding down a slippery slope and I have to just trust the landing will be soft on my knees. I am breathless and frightened. I am grateful for the great life I have now and am just working on keeping the past under control, my control. I need to have stay-in-bed days. I need to have exploring days. I need to eat lovely food, have relaxing baths, enjoy my sexuality and separate my original sexual experiences from my current ones. This is all happening.

What is also happening is that my priorities have become apparent. Making art is not one of them now I am not escaping my secrets. Throwing myself in my work is not attractive now I am not lonely. Writing still makes me feel good, despite the change in my source of inspiration. Writing is becoming the work. It is touching the outside more directly. It is getting me fast feedback and connecting me with others and showing me what my society is capable of.