I could spend a few forevers here in my bed, living different lives, different traumas, different truths.
I don't sleep, I create and pretend that I am somewhere else but here.
Twisting and turning in the covers, my body is the battleground on which the wars of my mind are fought.
Complete denial of reality, responsibility, I am stuck in a world I cannot explain and no longer try to - I am tired of their condescending, unbelieving eyes.
I live half my life in a "fantasy" world where I weave my secret storylines, play them out with my body as one of the puppets, then abandon them there to wither and die.
I imagine a hundred thousand million hurts and assaults and travesties to escape the ones I've lived and continue to live.
Replace reality with fiction because fiction is easier to deal with, to dismiss - "it's not real".
It does not surprise me now that my first memories of my lived trauma came to me as nightmares that I could try to rationalise and pick apart before tossing in the synaptic trash.
Why could not the trash man have come and taken away the refuse before the greedy little scavenger hiding between my neurons found that discarded nightmare and then wore it as a cape.
And feeling it had something powerful, proceeded to prance and scamper and flaunt it in and around me until, with growing horror, I made connections between it and my scattered memories.
My memories have since knit themselves together again, creating a full technicolour experience – but this one comes with physical sensations too.
So when it takes a few seconds too long to loose my winter scarf from my neck and you see my eyes get a little bit glassier, a little bit bigger, my breath coming a little bit faster…
Know it is not the first time I have felt choked.
Know that my hundred thousand million imaginings are preferable to a few seconds of my real memories.