The Phone

1.

A slither of light shone through the window, leaving a trace of hope on the sofa; the curtains were not fully drawn shut. First battle. Eradicate the light but limp body? The second-best option and only option really is to create the darkness with the tools available. Simply closing the eyes is an amateur's game; whoever can suffice with just closing their eyes seeking complete darkness, is not a true warrior. Not a sufferer. Pitch black is the goal.

The eye mask is in the other room so a substitute will have to do. Blanket? Pillow? Change body position? As she squirms to be one with the sofa, tucking her head down onto her chest, forehead pressed against the backrest, the blanket is pulled up and taut over her head, pillow as the protector on top, her body's sole purpose is to be consumed by the dark. Bright light and sunny days are tempting thoughts she dare not think; embracing that side of life means to be present and consciously basking in the gift of day but that it is a disconnected notion. Too scary. Too much effort.

2.

Second battle, mind. How does one silence fog? The haziness of her mind is all too consuming, filling each crevice of her headspace. The disjointed words and glimpses of triggers and memories gently tapping away at the skull, pleading to be let in. That needs to stop. The desire to escape it naturally forces the eyes to forcibly shut and in doing so the mind is quiet. Still.

3.

Whilst the darkness and silence are achieved, maintaining them takes its toll. Rest is the third battle. How does she rest whilst working every last bit of energy creating her escape? Her safe space might look like laziness to the un-traumatised eye but the tactical skill needed to shut off, numb down and block out is spectacular. It is also draining. It is also sad. With her heightened sensitivity to the light and noise, which in actuality is her intuition telling her to surrender to the present, creates a conundrum. She cares but doesn't. She is present but not. She is safe but isn't. She does not feel safe. How can she when it's laying right over there?

The added fight of ignoring it laying right over there sends her eyelids into overdrive. They shut even tighter, eluding the gloom, making the room feel bigger and her farther away from it. In doing so, she is exhausted. Minutes or hours pass and she is snatched into a deep, silent sleep. No dreams, no stirs, just sleep. A true respite. When she awakes she misses it and desperately tries to get back. She does. The cycle continues, day in, day out. A bathroom break is an automatic action, a function that occurs without a second thought. The routine of adjusting the blanket and positioning herself to slip back into the pitch black is second nature. This is her normal.

4.

Her bravest day has come. Anxious thoughts have become bored and are taking their rest. She glances over at the phone and tentatively reaches over, grabs it and lays it down, face down, on the arm rest. This is monumental. The thought of looking at her phone, let alone touching it, paralysed her with fear, and yet here she is bringing it closer to her with ease. As if nothing is wrong. As if her heartbeat has not doubled in beat. As if her mind is not racing, swirling around all the potential words she might see on her phone.

Like a baby bird she emerges off of the sofa and slowly creeps into the kitchen. Her body wants something warm. Tea and soup is made and consumed. Light cleaning occurs. Her partner comes home and she welcomes him with a sheepish grin. He beams ear to ear, ecstatic to welcome her back to life.

5.

Traces of fragility remain. Illogical thought trains run rife in the back of her mind but functionality has returned. The windows are cracked open; light and air are a welcome change. Light interaction is just enough to dip her toes back in. A somewhat normal sleep pattern is reintroduced, small dreams are present. The next day is uneventful, normal. She turns her phone over. Aura has won this battle. Anxiety recoils and regroups for the next one.