As I said, it's lovely out there, in the dark. The grass is scented and the night sounds are gentle. Sometimes, to me, the sounds make a lonely call, and I slip off into the field. I used to walk Eddie on the Hollins campus at night time. So well did I know the walking path along Tinker Creek, that I did not need a light. Something mysterious in the dark, calls to me.
I have been fortunate in my life, that I have always lived in places where I could wander in the dark, if I chose to. The big danger in the country was snakes and bears, but they are shy. And spiders. Here, the danger is tripping over lawn ornaments, or being bitten by snakes, or black widow spiders.
In four days, I have gone from bat-shit crazy, to Ok. What a difference a new lock on a door, and the company and love of some sterling friends can do.
I still feel the need to be in enclosed spaces, preferably my own, but that is waning. I am a bit worried, no therapy or group next week. My therapist is going to classes in NYC. But I do have friends to call on, and all of them know now, that my PTSD is active. I will have to throw myself into using my dialectic behavioral skills this week. I will contemplate my therapist's advice, and hear his voice when I am stressed. I don't want to kill my support network.
I still patrol my perimeter. It is 2 hours until dawn.
The dark has become an enclosure for me. It was an enclosed space in my childhood, and remains so today. I remember one evening, about midnight, at the Old House. I had just been sexually assaulted, and I was living in terror, night and day. It was winter, and so very cold. But I thought my cats were in danger...I had heard a noise while lying in the dark. So I got up and checked my perimeter in the dark. You see, if you turn the lights on, any intruder now has light on their side.
My fear called me to the ultimate sacrifice...I stuck my head out of the cat door to check for noises, or movement in the wild night. Believe me, I moved through sheer terror to do it. When I stuck my head out of the door, the frosty night greeted me. It was a wild relief; no scenes of horror, no strangers in the dark, only the iron bar shadows of the trees on the frosty lawn. The moon was full, and the wind blew softly.
It was the most holy of scenes, that welcoming night.
And if all of this sounds like the ravings of a lunatic, so it may be. But it's the little world I live in right at the moment. This is mental illness. But it is neither more or less joyful or frightening than the world everyday people live in. I may have to take extra measures to live within my comfort zone but, purely as a selfish thing, it is worth it.
So I comfort myself, with this smallish time with you. You hold my hand, and we have our favorite drink together. I have a lovely orange cat at my feet, and a softly snoring dog by my side. I have been outside already, and I know some of what lies in the dark. There are the dahlias, geraniums, and impatiens, neatly contained, with the violets that grow wildly at their feet. There is the soft lawn, simply cut and tidy, green, with it's scents and sounds.
After harvesting, the lavender blooms again, and the zinnia grow outside of their bed, between the rock of the walkway. I don't know how that happened...
The cat ornaments that Dark Star gave to me, are in my line of sight, and they are bright and cheerful, an explosion of colorful felines. The gold clock, and the old picture of a woman on horseback stand next to the Chanel No. 5. I type on my laptop, which is resting on the bright star quilt, and I sit cross legged before it.
This morning, I read some posts from a year ago, and I have found the portfolio that I thought I had lost in the move from the Old House. The one that contains all of my work, from childhood, to the deaths of my Father and Mother. It is a very real presence, lying on top of the cherry jewelry stand. I sit in the antique, mahogany bed that my parents gave me. It is a sleigh bed, and, although I would like to sleep in one of the family beds that we inherited; the beds of my childhood, still I cannot put this bed away in storage. It is mine, picked especially for me by my parents, and that is a reminder of love.
This is a wandering post, because my mind wanders over loved things this morning, and away from securing the perimeter. It is a dialectical behavioral therapy skill, called "self-soothing." I have scented my ankle with my favorite perfume, and I luxuriate in the gifts of love from around the world that furnish my smallish space here, with it's crisp grey carpet, and clean, white walls. Night sounds fill the air, and Minkins is outside.
I know this is too long a post for the weekend. But I do enjoy my time here with you, before some music. And I think of you here, and long for your words, and I hear your whispers in the darkened field. Perhaps, I just hear the blades of grass rub together in a stray wind, over the field. But it is the same field that speaks to us all, and the same darkened forest that awaits us. The Old Oak stands on the edge of the wood, and I walk forward, confident in your voices.
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