So I'm scrolling, at where ever I was I don't remember, and a picture of his face so fittingly smiling above a dug grave, a stick in his hand to resemble a shovel, accompanied by a ridiculous name pops up on my screen. And suddenly all the air is stolen from the room, I being the self-sabotaging bitch that I am, click on his profile to figure out why he's suddenly in my suggested friends and realize it must be our mutuals, I did just re-add his twin sister after all, so I go take a look. And to my trauma's horror, or humor, I see my 13-year-old little sister's name on his friends list. Now I'm in full panic mode as I try to call a 13-year-old at noon on a Saturday morning. And text, and facetime, and I almost call our mother but I don't want to deal with her response to my justifiable moment of crazy. Finally this groggy kid answers and I, instead of being calm and collected as I had planned to be, completely lose my shit, I tell her he's gotta come off. No matter what I tell her she keeps asking what's so wrong with him. Remembering all the times she's called him crazy I wonder what is wrong with her brain. Eventually, she says fine and we hang up. And every barrier I have built in the last 7 years starts to crumble. The ghost has oh so easily dug himself back up again without doing anything at all. But now instead of seeing a blur when I dream of him, I can see his face as it is in real-time and that makes dreams and nightmares and space outs oh so much more suffocating. His face is more threatening than any knife I've ever seen him hold to someone's throat. Because his face always makes me feel like I'm still waiting for my turn. My trauma train has rewelcomed its favorite conductor and I have a first-class seat strapped to the front. Maybe to give me the illusion that I'm guiding it when he has all the controls and I'm the one in danger. We were just a couple of scarred kids trying to find a normal in insanity, a normal in addiction, but our normal was addiction and my drug of choice was him. His was anger and violence. I was a momentary rehab, or just not quite annoying enough to be stuck with his needles, our traumas understood each other, unknowing that one day he would become one of the worst I hold.
Story