Flashbacks: a pretty name (like fireworks and shooting stars) for an ugly reality.
I’m almost nearly sort of ok with acknowledging what happened, maybe even sometimes with talking about it (in my own way, in my own time, in a safe place, so I feel in control.)
It’s the ambushing I can’t take. Out of the blue. The smell of Benson & Hedges; Imperial Leather soap; an accent; the pattern on the wallpaper; the Coronation Street theme; anybody standing behind me anytime ever. Flipped back into the past by my own subconscious, neutral cues acquire a sinister weight through association.
I try to be mindful. Focus on what is present and real: the feel of yarn through my fingers; the scent of threatening snow on the air; her voice, reaching out, bringing me back.
Stay with me, she says. Stay here, now…