It’s five who wanted to cry Wednesday night. It’s five who couldn’t talk, couldn’t write, couldn’t fathom ever telling a secret she was sure was meant for no one. It’s five who cried when she did tell. It’s five who is in the hurt box right now, from not receiving a single hug since Wednesday.
It’s eighteen who did end up writing. And it’s thirty-three who deleted it at 4:25am, sleep deprived and uncertain how the desperateness of the cry out for help would come across. Thirty-three was fine. Thirty-three has years and years of logic and resilience and skills. The other parts don’t. The other parts just want to cry and be held and try to make sense of why that night felt so familiar and terrifying all at once. So fast the dissociation. So quick to decide it needed to be held forever, burning a recognizable burn. So much, the waves of tears. So frightened and confused.
Thirty-three says, nothing. Over nothing.
But there’s a reason for all of this. There’s a reason my body won’t let it go. There’s a reason I feel so little, and in urgent need for a safe holding place.
There is a reason my body went into a trauma response. I’m not in the business of denying what’s going on for me anymore. The only way forward is through. The only way through is to let five talk.