I had a few realizations today. They seemed big, but don’t sound like much perhaps.
One of them is that everything I feel of myself of those times that relate to the girls are in between being abused. In a relative sense, those were my happy times.
I’ve realized a few things that seem to connect very strongly to those times. One of them is coffee. It can be any kind of coffee. It can be shitty coffee. It can be delicious, high-quality, perfectly brewed coffee. Coffee cheers me up.
I suspect this has a lot to do with staying up half the night. I suspect we drank an awful lot of coffee, probably most of it 7-11 coffee. Or taco stand coffee. I suspect it paired well with things that have ketchup on them.
I have a thing about ketchup.
Also, for being blazing hot. The thing to do if I’m in a state is freshen the hot water bottle, get under the blankets, and warm up to the point just below breaking into a sweat.
Russians like the heat cranked up. Or so I have been told.
Getting out of an anxious state is therefore best accomplished via all of these three things from my trafficked childhood coming together: burning up, coffee, and French fries with ketchup. Which seems totally contradictory. Those are reminders of being trafficked.
No, they are reminders of the moments of safety that came in between.