(no subject)
I almost killed Michael tonight. No, that's not quite right.
I thought Michael was going to kill me tonight. No, not that either...
Ah, up too late again with nothing but my trusty computer and the ghosts of the past seeping their treacherous way into my present. Too many people on FaceBook, nowhere to post safely. No one here but the tried and the true. I wonder if my sister is still reading. I hope not? It doesn't much matter. Vanity? Stream of thought through typing fingers, so much easier than speaking. Exorcising the past/present in a jumble that may or may not make sense to any, maybe not even myself in the morning.
Did you see this? Those are two of my closest friends. And as terrifying as the story sounds in the news it was both better and far worse than anything they released. The wife, G, was handcuffed and with the intruder for an hour. She's also one seriously tough cookie who managed to beat him up pretty badly, even while handcuffed. She couldn't take him though. It wasn't until after her husband, D, got home that D was able to get the gun away from him. Cracked their kitchen counter with his head, too. They caught the guy. My friends are "ok". They're selling the house. They haven't really been back.
I am... deeply shaken that after all this time, after 20 years of safety and putting our lives straight and being "normal" that this can still happen to my friends who have fought so long and so hard to be ok with who they are. To put the scars and the pain of their pasts behind them and take a chance on each other, on love, on home-ownership, on adulthood, on believing that there is a future. And some stupid ass little pothead breaks into their house and destroys that fragile bubble of security. I thank God that they were both far tougher and far more prepared for that kind of horrific invasion than a "normal" couple would have been. A more frightened woman would have gotten herself killed. A less determined man would have gotten them both killed. But a few black eyes and a couple of stitches is really nothing to be too upset over. As Bruce used to say, "You should see the other guy."
They did catch the guy, by the way.
It's oh so impolite to fall apart during someone else's tragedy. Besides the fact that I'm really too far away for my fall apart to impact them; especially if I don't mention it.
I was cooking dinner today and Michael, feeling playful, pointed the cat toy laser over my shoulder. Part of me knew what it was. The deeper part of me couldn't figure out why he was pointing a gun at me. I froze. The most rational I could manage was to realize that it was him and he wouldn't hurt me. I shouted, "STOP THAT!" Which he immediately did. He apologized abjectly when I told him what has made me shout. I told him it was ok, there was no way he could have known. A few minutes laster he came back into the kitchen to find me curled up against the wall shaking and crying.
Tara told me that things with her husband were harder than they necessarily would have been if she had had a "normal" up-bringing. Michael is so kind and so patient. I just... Every time I think I've laid it to rest something rears up and scares me. I guess that's sort of the classic definition of PTSD. I... I don't think it's ever really going to go away entirely.
I just can't imagine how brutally unfair things can be that after all G has fought through, after all she's done to finally get back to a place where she felt safe and comfortable, relaxed and protected to have THIS happen. Yeah, she's a total bad ass, and even the police told her so as they were taking her to the hospital. She now knows that her husband not only will but possesses the capability to kill for her safety. And he knows that he has the best, strongest, smartest, bravest wife in the world who knows when to get out of the line of fire. But... they shouldn't have to know that.
And I shouldn't have cat toys leaving me crying and ashamed of how scared I am.
I thought Michael was going to kill me tonight. No, not that either...
Ah, up too late again with nothing but my trusty computer and the ghosts of the past seeping their treacherous way into my present. Too many people on FaceBook, nowhere to post safely. No one here but the tried and the true. I wonder if my sister is still reading. I hope not? It doesn't much matter. Vanity? Stream of thought through typing fingers, so much easier than speaking. Exorcising the past/present in a jumble that may or may not make sense to any, maybe not even myself in the morning.
Did you see this? Those are two of my closest friends. And as terrifying as the story sounds in the news it was both better and far worse than anything they released. The wife, G, was handcuffed and with the intruder for an hour. She's also one seriously tough cookie who managed to beat him up pretty badly, even while handcuffed. She couldn't take him though. It wasn't until after her husband, D, got home that D was able to get the gun away from him. Cracked their kitchen counter with his head, too. They caught the guy. My friends are "ok". They're selling the house. They haven't really been back.
I am... deeply shaken that after all this time, after 20 years of safety and putting our lives straight and being "normal" that this can still happen to my friends who have fought so long and so hard to be ok with who they are. To put the scars and the pain of their pasts behind them and take a chance on each other, on love, on home-ownership, on adulthood, on believing that there is a future. And some stupid ass little pothead breaks into their house and destroys that fragile bubble of security. I thank God that they were both far tougher and far more prepared for that kind of horrific invasion than a "normal" couple would have been. A more frightened woman would have gotten herself killed. A less determined man would have gotten them both killed. But a few black eyes and a couple of stitches is really nothing to be too upset over. As Bruce used to say, "You should see the other guy."
They did catch the guy, by the way.
It's oh so impolite to fall apart during someone else's tragedy. Besides the fact that I'm really too far away for my fall apart to impact them; especially if I don't mention it.
I was cooking dinner today and Michael, feeling playful, pointed the cat toy laser over my shoulder. Part of me knew what it was. The deeper part of me couldn't figure out why he was pointing a gun at me. I froze. The most rational I could manage was to realize that it was him and he wouldn't hurt me. I shouted, "STOP THAT!" Which he immediately did. He apologized abjectly when I told him what has made me shout. I told him it was ok, there was no way he could have known. A few minutes laster he came back into the kitchen to find me curled up against the wall shaking and crying.
Tara told me that things with her husband were harder than they necessarily would have been if she had had a "normal" up-bringing. Michael is so kind and so patient. I just... Every time I think I've laid it to rest something rears up and scares me. I guess that's sort of the classic definition of PTSD. I... I don't think it's ever really going to go away entirely.
I just can't imagine how brutally unfair things can be that after all G has fought through, after all she's done to finally get back to a place where she felt safe and comfortable, relaxed and protected to have THIS happen. Yeah, she's a total bad ass, and even the police told her so as they were taking her to the hospital. She now knows that her husband not only will but possesses the capability to kill for her safety. And he knows that he has the best, strongest, smartest, bravest wife in the world who knows when to get out of the line of fire. But... they shouldn't have to know that.
And I shouldn't have cat toys leaving me crying and ashamed of how scared I am.