A Bit of Life, In My Own Words

It's difficult to stop, and focus on what I need to say. Me, as Abbi. When I dissociate, what comes out is free to be itself. Sometimes it's in really profound and beautiful ways. Much of the time it's sad, and, to me, pretty pathetic. No matter what, and even if no one listens, I'm going to speak out about this. But every time I try, I zone out. I pull into my mind, where it is safe and dark, and yet my fingers keep moving across the keys without missing a beat.

And when I realize the time passed, I am amazed to see what I've written, yet sometimes disappointed because I was not able to finish my original point without going on Auto Pilot.

This may be an illness. But it's also an instinct.

It's such an overpowering instinct, I cannot emphasize enough how it can change me in an instant. Just by reading my own thoughts on paper, another side might emerge in response to the idea, or statement. It's a constant juggling of opinions and interactions, an exchanging of words and feelings, mulling them over a hundred times over before I say a thing.

It's an adaptive response to what used to be my natural habitat. I'll tread lightly on this subject now. My own honesty does seem to switch my Auto Pilots into On. Like I said, my tone and wording switches, my opinion shifts, as does my point. But this is more than just ordinary zigzagging ways of talking. Though I can't deny having issues with attention, I must insist, this is different.

(Bear with me, I'm feeling zoney)

If your natural habitat is unsafe, or unstable, day-in and day-out for decades, you basically have to learn to juggle a lot of shit, while hopping barefoot through a mental and emotional minefield. For years. Fuck being a kid, you have to grow up fast. Your mind goes on Auto-Pilot. It starts processing everything differently, just so that you can keep from dropping the ball; to keep that terrible, destructive bomb from going off in your face again.

It becomes a subconscious game you play. Maybe, that minefield will turn into a meadow one day, and you'll get to dance and play without fear of pain and retribution. And when the bombs do go off, you'll be picking the glass out of your own flesh and you'll pretend it was done by someone who cared more than you.

But enough of that. Today is today, and my keys are a-clacking, and dinner is coming out of the oven, and I have a handsome man to share it with.

Good night to you all.

Abbi Z.