I had to phone the pollice again. They were arguing again. Screaming, hitting, the floor vibrating with their violence and aggression. Myself, I start shaking, trembling, quivering in my voice as I phone the police, “It’s happening again. They’re doing it again.”
They knock on our door, ask what is the matter. What’s going on here? They stop. Still I’m shaking, on my bed crying having memories and flashbacks that I had been trying to not remember. Memories, I try to pretend never happened. Flashbacks taking me back to where I never wanted to be, and never want to be again. That fearful child I was, that painstakingly scared child I had to be because the shouting and sound of aggression ran right through me. Aged 25, it’s been nearly 10 years and still I’m taken back there, trembling. So I pop a clonazepam, have a cup of tea and put my music on loudly, to drown out the outside and the inside too. To drown the memories in sound. To drown the fear in music, and the emotion in an ocean of other senses indulged.
The urge to self harm grows stronger. I try my best not to, and fortunately manage. I write poetry, listen to music, anything to not go backwards to that place again, emotionally, mentally and most definitely physically.