I was watching a show today and a character asked when he would stop seeing the images constantly replay in his mind. When can he close his eyes and not still see the same thing over and over? That horrid images that should never be real.
As I approach two years I find the visuals have changed, the film playing on the backs of my eyelids are more psychologically difficult.
I still see her eyes – I believe I always will. If I could go back to that night I would never have looked at her face but I did. And so I see her beautifully grotesque eyes.
But I see me, doubled over, on the phone with 911. I see the beginning of my own pain and find that harder to deal with now.
That pain I had in my stomach that I’ve previously written about. I still don’t understand what exactly it was. I felt physically ill but never threw up.
I felt like I should’ve been screaming. Passersby on the street did. So why didn’t I? Why did I not lose complete control of myself? A woman I know killed herself and I was as cool as a cucumber.
And I can’t help but wonder how many of the guys I work with watched that video. Watched me going through the beginning of the most personal hell I’ve ever known. And I wonder if they judged me or took amusement in my pain.
How quiet that room was when I finally returned to work. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. Always, the eyes. And again, I feel judged. That my pain was so evident and open for all to see, to use how they choose, makes me feel vulnerable.
I will never forget that none of them called to see if I was ok.