“The first stage of recovery is securing safety, according to Trauma & Recovery by Judith Herman. The second stage is being able to tell your story. The problem with my story is I will never be safe until my story has been told and responded adequately. I will never be able to fully tell that story until I’m safe, which I will never be until I’ve told the story, which I will never be until I’m safe – This is a feedback loop from Hell.
You can imagine why I might struggle.
What’s more is that there are people who feel very strongly that their safety is threatened if I tell that story and find safety, and, so, their safety against mine, their resources against mine, while i’m stuck in this feedback loop that’s killing me, you can imagine how I might be fucked in that situation. God, I pray for someone with the eyes to see and the ears to hear this, the heart to feel it. Please reach out. Help me connect with safe people. They are getting harder and find, especially the more i’m battered into communication styles which would be appropriately referred to as encrypted.
I love you all so much. I believe in you. Please see me – because this is so much bigger than me. You could be entirely selfish and self serving, you would still want to know. I don’t think you are entirely selfish and self serving so maybe… maybe my life is enough, but there’s so much more on the line than that.
Please don’t punish me for trying. I wish I could try more, better, in different ways. Wish I knew how. I have to find a way. Otherwise I wouldn’t able to live with myself. Being knowingly complicit… I can forgive everyone else for being complicit through the shroud of ignorance. I really want to help relieve that ignorance, if anyone wants to let me try.
I love you.
Please hear me.”
X felt the counter/transference of watching herself cry in front of an Anne Frank monument with a gut wrenching impact. She was beginning to understand how she’d learned to render her tone into something neutral and casual, to the extent of chronically seeming sarcastic, resulting in reliably repetitive cavernous misunderstandings. But she could see herself cry, she knew what it meant, she knew it was a tragedy, and she ached that she could not be the one to reach back to herself, where for some of many possible reasons, nobody else did.
“God Make Up Your Mind” by Cold War Kids played to ween X off of her own nauseating pain, onto something standardized and subdued, giving her memories to the associations she assigned them to.
Solve for x 
Leave a comment