She had always known home as the place of conflict, as the thing you put a calm face to when you went to work or sat in class. She had found herself being surprised as a young girl, when she found that for a lot of people, it was a place of comfort, happiness and welcome. She did not really believe it.
Today, she realised that she had managed to recreate that mental space of distress as an adult.
But it could not be her fault. It was her mother, not a husband.
Today, she wanted to break down and cry, because she thought she could not take the stress anymore. She wanted to put down her burden and feel light. The weight felt hard and solid, no shooting pains that came and went. This weight would bear down on you, grim, unrelenting, and bring you down on your hands and knees, no mistake.
She could not put it down, no more than Atlas could put down the sky, not to sound too full of oneself.
So she knotted herself, and knotted herself, round and round and round. Cursed her own guts, died of guilt again and again, and dropped off to sleep when she could not do it anymore.
A most unsavoury state of affairs it was. But she now knew herself to be compulsive, knew that breaking out would not be easy, as the clock moved slowly towards 12.30, and then 1.30, closer and closer to the magical hour, when tiredness vanished. It was like Cinderella's transformation. Born again and again every night, before wilting away for another day.
Today, she realised that she had managed to recreate that mental space of distress as an adult.
But it could not be her fault. It was her mother, not a husband.
Today, she wanted to break down and cry, because she thought she could not take the stress anymore. She wanted to put down her burden and feel light. The weight felt hard and solid, no shooting pains that came and went. This weight would bear down on you, grim, unrelenting, and bring you down on your hands and knees, no mistake.
She could not put it down, no more than Atlas could put down the sky, not to sound too full of oneself.
So she knotted herself, and knotted herself, round and round and round. Cursed her own guts, died of guilt again and again, and dropped off to sleep when she could not do it anymore.
A most unsavoury state of affairs it was. But she now knew herself to be compulsive, knew that breaking out would not be easy, as the clock moved slowly towards 12.30, and then 1.30, closer and closer to the magical hour, when tiredness vanished. It was like Cinderella's transformation. Born again and again every night, before wilting away for another day.
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