I’m taking a break from sorting laundry: the clean clothes are spread all over my bed in piles – my tops; my cardigans; my pyjama tops; my socks; my running gear; Elsadaughter’s pyjama bottoms; her jeans; her t-shorts; towels. All clean and dried and folded (I don’t iron) and the dogs jump up on the bed for snuggles.
I’m in some sort of half numb trance. I got back from my assessment session at Dublin Rape Crisis Centre at about half four.
I don’t know what to say about the appointment. It was long; I cried a lot; I threw up. Now I’m liquid gurgling in a fragile glass. Touch me, look at me and I’ll smash into a heap of salt at your feet.
I could sleep for a day and night. A dead, cold sleep.
Does the brain shut down after an emotionally intense experience? Does the body go into screensaver mode performing the most basic of functions without even informing the consciousness that it’s doing them. I can barely keep my eyes open. I feel nothing but a draining of spent bile in my gut.
I need a shower, I ran home from Leeson Street, an initial surge of adrenaline – I went there, I did this.
I walked the dogs. I made myself eat.
But I don’t want to be naked, to see my body, to expose it to my judgemental eyes. I’d rather wallow in the stench of sweat and feel used and soiled and broken. Because I deserve to feel like that.
That was one of my first confessions: I feel like a fraud, so many more women need this more than me. It was so long ago.
I got nothing else on my To Do List done today.
But at least I’ve done the laundry.