The Box

It’s summer, the time when I am supposed to be the happiest. Gardening, butterflies, flowers and all the other things I think I need in order to survive what’s coming. But I hate the way the air feels, with it’s wildfire red sunsets reminding me that the world really is on fire and it’s just a matter of time. There is too much brown and yellow sucking up the light and the green and purple. All the family vacations that don’t happen anymore because your kids grow up and you get old and sick and it’s easier to just stay home. I haven’t eaten a vegetable in weeks even though they are growing right outside my back door and I know it’s good for me. A box came in the mail yesterday from my dead lawyer. It contained the file of my lifetime of restraining orders and court hearings and years of abuse. You know when you have a scab and all your good sense tells you not to pick it but you just can’t help it? I picked the scab, even though it was so close to healing, and now I’m infected with memories and flashbacks and so much anger but mostly tears. How can someone be so cruel? Never mind, I know the answer to that question. I know all there is to know about narcissists. The answer is that there is no answer, just damage, scars and ashes. They are a lot like wildfires. I want to strangle someone but he is already dead so I can’t even yell at him or beg him to just be a father and forget about me. Someone told me that her ex-husband faked his own death so now I am sure that’s what mine has done. He is just hiding somewhere, probably in the middle of a fire, waiting for me to let my guard down so he can trick me again or scream at me that I am a fucking cunt or maybe even kill me. He always wanted to win. Divorce papers to a sick man, are an anthem sung to signal the beginning of his games. Only no one wins. He never could figure that out. My brain and heart have breached capacity. I need to eat more vegetables.

 

(Image by KathyW from pxleyes.com)