Sunday, June 27, 2010

Measured Breaths

I'm lying in bed trying to slow my breathing down. I'm trying desperately to stop myself from hyperventilating but controlled, even breaths just aren't coming. Tears roll down my cheek, unnoticed, as I focus more and more of my energies on taking in air deep into my lungs. Images flood my mind on fast forward and as each scene clicks past my consciousness my breathing quickens. Each in and out is like a knife in my chest. My heart races and I ball my hands into fists pressed against my eyes.

I want to call Quiet Confidence to talk me down, but I'm not sure I can speak on the phone. I don't want to call at 2am only to have him hear sobbing and my out of control breathing. Even larger than my desire to hear his voice is the fear that he won't pick up. The thought of reaching out and discovering that he's not available is terrifying. It is untested territory. It is easier to go it alone than call and have it confirmed that I really am alone.

Mr. Intellectual was full of unfulfilled promises and an inability to be supportive of me and it has forever tainted me. I remember the nights when I was suicidal and desperate calling out for help and he would refuse to come see me. He didn't even want to talk to me on the phone and his indifference to my pain pushed me further into the darkness. I remember the way it made me feel and how I lost respect and love for him over his behaviour. After we broke up I never wanted to feel like that with another person, especially someone I love.

That is why I lay at 2 am concentrating on the in and out of my breath while abhorrent images scream through my minds eye. It is easier to hear the next day that I should have called than to call in the moment and find myself listening to an answering machine instead of a real person.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I know how you feel, Jane