Unraveling

The longer I work with to heal the psycho yaddahs of my child sex trafficking herstory, the more I believe that memory works on the grid principles. One memory quite literally leads to another in the neural network between my ears. The nostalgic grief the second anniversary of my son's death can tug easily on the distant memories of my infancy as easily as a tug on any thread of a spider's web can and will shake the entire web, all the way to the spider's hiding spot where she sits patiently with her feet on 8 different threads of her web. When I gently tap a thread of her web, she cowers a bit further into her hiding spot. The force of my gentle tap was sufficient to let her know I am more likely to eat her than the other way around. Whose dinner is served?

There arenae many threads in my memory grid which arenae connected to the 36 years between the pregnancy and my youngest son's death. My amnesia was still mostly untreated when he was born in 1984. Many of the threads of his life are anchored to the psycho snot knots of repressed memories. How many repressed memories? How many threads are tangled into those knots of repressed memories? It is hard to know what all I have forgotten. Counting the details I have forgotten is even tougher. 

As I lean gently into the processing of the newest grief, going wherever it takes me, an old cliche comes to me from the western dime novels I so loved as a child. "Keep your heels down, cowgirl."

Again, I leave the mood icon on the rapid cycling median. Just breathe. . .