The knives are there in my stomach all day. When they disappear, it’s because I am so dissociated, I’m dizzy. I presume I’m really triggered about something, maybe C coming. Maybe just that I have, in a way, dared to disturb the universe. I mean, I took an action that will greatly affect someone else’s life in some way, hopefully in a good way, but certainly a way. I am not sleep walking or hiding behind a wall of glass. In reality, I have no idea, because I am too much in a state to think straight.

It’s afternoon—the knives have been there all day—and I suddenly think about what it was like to begin to try to process despair. I used to go in the toilet and try to scrub the laundry, and I would have to look at the floor, and it was like I was encased in mud. Or sadness. I started to think about that. I used to cry myself through my whole morning routine. It was for hours every day that I was in these emotional states and it was every day and it went on for a very long time. Maybe as much as a year.

So this is fear. Not that I haven’t felt fear before, but the knives in my stomach is the closest I have ever come to feeling in its full, enteric glory. So maybe nothing is wrong. Maybe this isn’t necessarily the result of being overly triggered, but just the next big, bad emotion that must be dealt with. Maybe it is an indication that something has gone right. And, as difficult as it is to bring it into range, I will eventually. I always have. I just have to keep trying. The sooner I can get it into range, the sooner I can process whatever thoughts and memories go with it, and the sooner life will be a lot better for me.

Maybe.

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