thank you mother
How do I know this was normal?
As a child I was a bookworm. I read non-stop, one after the other.
Like prayer beads, sequentially, non-stop until it’s over.
I breathed only when I read.
But was this a correlation?
Often, my mother blamed the reading.
I don’t believe it. I read until I feel asleep.
Often, my mom blamed the stress she had with my father.
I don’t remember this.
I’m assuming it was a sign of the beginning, of something I’ll struggle with forever.
At least the first couple times I experienced were the worst.
I’d sleep. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. WAKE UP.
I’d look down onto my blankets. It was covered in insects, bugs, roaches, abnormally large.
They’d swarm over all my body. Crawl on my skin. Dig inside of me.
You would think it was night terrors or bad nightmares.
Because it was in the day.
And I was awake.
Then it became episodes, episodic.
She’d attempt to coax me.
It would make everything worse.
She’d rub my back.
It felt like thousands of hands all over me. Patting me. Caressing me. Touching me.
She’s soothe me with her voice, but it multiplied.
Thousands of voices, over and over and over and over and over and over again.
Echoing, whispering, talking, screaming.
The voices were saying things on their own.
Overwhelming fear and terror.
Id tell her to stop, to SHUT UP.
It was too much. She stay quiet and just watch from afar. Just waiting for everything to stop.
I wonder how she felt, if she was scared, worried, terrified?
While I paced the room back and forth, back and forth, mumbling and crying for everything to freeze
I’d look down onto my hands.
They were mine, but they didn’t feel like it.
They looked enormous, like wearing mickey mouse gloves. I’d cry.
I’d move them to see if they were mine, but they wouldn’t move. Sometimes, they would move on their own, like the voices. They weren’t mine.
I paced back and forth in the room. Pleading for everything to stop.