Some kind of comfortable...

...turned to unease in another distant day.

Obstructed, oppressed by ghosts permeated every fibre of neglected existence...forgotten trodden paths walked so far, long, hard entrenched are the furrows, lines etching memories still lived. I am frightened, anything nearing worthiness yanked in a jittered beat, stiffened, ridged against joy awaiting...unspoken as unbroken never made promises of a bed of blossoming buds, sweet scent of hope I rip from rooted attachment. Terrified of satisfaction...no, not that, attainment for when I hold dear I risk eventual theft. So I break free before I am held, bound embrace...I am in control, I have to be. In remaining, surrendering I am exposed, vulnerable, held back by my own dread of abondenment...not in their leave but impatience with my slowness to trust, my sabotage to prove right any prophecy hinged around heels dug firmly in. I've never spoken of the sexual misuse as a child...never thought it mattered so much as having trusted parent to turn, my primary desertion repeated throughout. Oh, I told them twenty years and more ago doubting I'd be believed, my story would return with jealous enmity for preparing such twisted tales for attention...this I swallowed, doubted my own recollections.

As I write I'm starkly aware of the distance I place still between myself and reminiscence unexplored. Why do I close myself off when touched in most gratifying ways? My domain, yes...for me and nobody else yet in letting that other enter my private world where uncontrollable depth of emotion can only exist and to trust is all I strive to consummate. I confess, I relished the touch so young, the gentleness of hands arousing skin to tender heights I couldn't have imagined but since become wet with rape of respect. That was the damage done, early stimulant when all else hurt, too young and untaught to comprehend connections made, associations formed, hardwired for replicate. I recall none but one detail of what he did, my incestuous uncle, that moment is soldered, the rest rusted, forsaken, I'm unprepared to find, too dark is that journey, there is no coveted need...I am tightly held shut. This unease in me to some kind of comfortable in recognition of pattern, shape of developing relationship, connection with self and the other. This is the way the indefinable it is and it is alright, no preference left to change, to forge a path of my own making, steer direction but to drift instead with how we are. I am set to wallow in delicious complex entanglement, awkwardness of misunderstanding, clashes of wills...I am ready now to free the life I know I am, live fully in parallel...and trust where trust is met.