Drinking in
caffeinated encouragement.
***
I clean a kitchen
that is not mine to clean. The full sink of dishes is a desperately welcomed
chore. This is a tonic summoning me out of paralyzed
state.
I seize the
chance to create order, to move a body experiencing the aftershocks of trauma
through the familiar motions of cleaning dishes. I immerse myself in this
self-assigned task, relieved to feel, for a moment, a sense of security in this
mundane routine, which rescues me from a mind buzzing in fear and restores me
back to the present.
I rinse out
cereal bowls, find the correct drawer to place away spoons, clear remnants of
coffee grinds from the white tile countertop. The rhythm provides ease, an ease
in limbs that have been tightened in heightened alert.
I decide to make
coffee. It’s eight-thirty in the evening. I can feel exhaustion coloring my
eyes, but my heart hurts for comfort and finds it in fresh, hot coffee. I pour
a generous amount of cream into the mug, and sip it quickly.
I keep moving. I
tidy up the living room, remake a bed, organize my wallet, my purse, prepare for
tomorrow by piecing together an outfit that will foster confidence, calm,
because tomorrow I will call the police officer back, tomorrow I will state my
needs. I may need to fight.
I’ll wear my
black pants, the high-waisted ones with a blue blouse tucked in. This ensemble
may not be entirely workplace professional, but I only had fifteen minutes to
pack that bag, and this is what I have, and I’m grateful to have packed my
favorite black pants, my favorite blue blouse. A clear thought in the storm
hanging in the hallway closet.
I listen to the Year of Yes as I go about my cleaning,
and plan later to watch reruns of “Sex and the City.” Season 5, or Season 6.
I yearn for
Carrie’s fantastical version of city life, of a love life. Her romantic
escapades are humorous, witty, flirty, inquisitive and seeking, tender,
untainted from abuse.
It’s such a far
stretch from reality, and that’s why I watch one episode after another, like
drinking one cosmopolitan after another, intoxicated by a dream world of pretty
shoes, brunches, soul mate searches and eventual finds. This cleverly crafted
and accessorized world is so safe, it’s so safe in that city, in that parallel
universe where women can live independently and pursue passions and hot men
without pause.
I pause often
now. I pause to look out the window at work. I pause to glance into the
rearview mirror. I pause before I get out of my car, I pause before I get out
of it, before I walk to it.
Tonight, though,
I don’t pause. I move through tidying, organizing, preparing, and the tightness
around my heart cautiously loosens. I tiptoe around the edge of myself, no
longer locked in, no longer locked out. And so the healing process begins, and
it all starts with cleaning dishes.
