17 December 2009
8 a part
when i was five or six, just after jessica died, an unfortunately early viewing of the red shoes jumbled up with my love of the three musketeers to lead me to a very firm belief that if i did not perform well in ballet, a man in a blouse and bearing a saber would sever my hands at the wrist while i slept.
i went to elaborate lengths to prevent this, deliberately sleeping on my stomach, fists balled into my chest. because then the musketeer would have to roll me over and wake me. and being awake while one's wrists were being severed seemed somehow dramatically less scary than a saber slicing across them as i dreamed.
i say all this now because partner is very sick.
and she will be fine. because she is always fine. because no matter what has happened in the past or how scary things have gotten, we have all of us always been fine.
and yet, even though i know this, even though i am the cheerleader of Love Not Fear and i know everything always unfailingly works out in the end, even though i believe all of that more firmly than i ever believed in the man in the blouse, there are still those nights.
nights when, no matter how tough and independent a 28-year-old woman you try to be, you wake up on your stomach, fists balled into your chest, and the old familiar prick of fear in the dark leaves you a little girl waiting for someone to come along and cut her up.