In the midst of reflection, I look back at the summer and fall of 2009 and recognize myself for what I was:
A ghost of a woman.
I detached completely, cut the cords tethering me to life and its joys, because to feel joy, I would have to feel, period. And what I felt was so immense, so heavy, that it threatened my very existence. It was the dagger pressed to my breast and I found myself longing to rush against it, to submit at last to the demons that chase me from year to year and place to place.
I hid from them well enough to survive their onslaught, battening down my heart’s hatches. But in doing so, I hid from the beauty I still had, even as I was losing so much.
Every ghost needs a home, it is sung. This ghost has returned to hers, but not quite. She holds the key, steps inside, but her suitcase is still packed. She’s waiting for a reason to call the bus terminal. She’s fearful of a storm that will send her running through the mud for a highway, her thumb outstretched in desperation, apathetic to what dangers may lie behind a stranger’s wheel. She takes long walks, disappears, but like a cat, she returns, scratching at the back door. She’s feral – but all she wants is to feel at home again. Safe.
Have you seen my ghost?
Day 120: Weighty Ghost – Wintersleep