Thought #3: Over the Shoulder
Looking back, it's so gross. Which is why I rarely look back, except for when I'm lying in bed at night and I can't sleep and the thoughts surface on their own.
It's so gross.
Some people sorta fetishize the whole ordeal, like it's something beautiful, like all you need is a love interest to help you out of the hole. And I'll admit, I am guilty, I have pulled at this line, I have prayed for the same hand to reach down like god to reintroduce the light into my life.
Even now, I still have this idea that it's both holy and horrific. From some angles, it looks so clean and cold, like winter sunlight and early Sunday mornings, the ever-present fuzz of sleep in my lungs. It is a worldview, a religion, and it is practiced alone.
But that is only the shallows. Deeper down, it is filthy. It is disgusting. It's about how it changes you, how you shrink inside yourself, revert to an earlier age where you are stuck, hanging, helpless and crying with the horrible booming weight of it all crowding your every space til you've got nothing left.
You are the victim and the perpetrator, both responsible and not, tethered to something terrible and—
Oh, god, it's so gross. I can look back at it, I can act like it won't ever happen again, as if it isn't already waiting in my skin, dormant. I can remind myself of the evil embodied in those times. It won't help or harm. Either way, it resurfaces in a crest of anger and helplessness, a trailing wake of shame. I'll burst out crying, I'll start shouting without reason, I'll refuse to get up, I'll refuse to wash, I'll crumple to the floor, I'll hurt the people I love the most and I won't even care because I will figure they're fine.
I'm not touching them, but I get them dirty too.