Right now I'm wondering how the hell I got here, not only to this chair in this room but to this day in November when my world isn't falling apart, when it is miraculously intact, when for so many of the people in my life I love dearly, it isn't. Forever my world was fractured and then one day it wasn't. Today it isn't. Right now I'm OK. I'm hot from spice tea and sweaters and hambone bean soup. I'm hot in a way my palms could cook dinner, my thighs could broil the roast. But I'm OK.
Today is the anniversary of my rape, she tells me at lunch. I'm losing my fucking mind, she types in a text. She's home recovering at her mother's after her heart quit beating last week, I learn from a mutual friend. She may have to tell her husband it's over, she says on the phone.
All of these people precious, brilliant, none of them can I fix. I pray they will be OK. I make and bring soup. I listen. I pray. I buy and bring candy. That's all I can do. Enjoying even part of my day used to feel so selfish. Now I cling to those small moments of joy, of peace like rafts on the way to shore. I must feel OK, I must be OK, I must do everything I can to save myself no matter what has happened. I still need all of the help I can get I tell my friends who are drowning. At one point they've brought me soup and prayed for me.
This morning I ran through my neighborhood panting louder than my dog. I swallowed my vitamins and cooked my breakfast and refused to make eye contact with the Halloween candy, our affair THAT torrid. I laid out my mat and listened to my meditation, imagined my chakras, bent my hips into L's, read the books, journaled, prayed. All of that to leave the house. All of that to remain intact. All of that to be OK.