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Fear

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Written by Arian Mabe (Amethyst Mare)

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This should never have come. This was never my burden to bear. This was never my soul to take on, a tainted, dark semblance of something that, perhaps, once could have resembled a human soul.

You sank your claws into me, ripped me apart, stuck me back together - badly - and turned me into something that suited your needs. That was never for me, never for you to do, yet it did not matter.

You went and did it anyway.

I was just a girl, just a woman, just a human being - and it didn't matter. But that is over and done and here I am, me, broken but in a form that I can put back together, piece by piece.

Not so.

Not so at all.

The fear. It crept in slowly. I remember cantering a bucking horse through a misty forest and laughing out loud. But it was different when I got back on a horse after that break, that forced break. It felt strange, it felt foreign and there was a wariness to me that had not been present before.

You taught me to fear all the wrong things.

The train station. The year before, I'd travelled to the centre of London and kept to my route map on the Underground very closely, but I hadn't been scared. That all changed. I didn't realise why I was looking over my shoulder, why I felt so dizzy and sick that I couldn't sit down for dinner with my boyfriend, but I felt that there was someone there.

There was someone coming for me. There was someone watching me.

I was in danger.

I wasn't safe anywhere.

At home. Avoiding mirrors. My reflection was dangerous because it revealed the truth. I didn't want to see that I was dead behind the eyes again, that sense of waiting, waiting...waiting to die.

If I was dead in the eyes, maybe it would mean that I was there already. So, I avoided looking for it.

A message in the corner of the screen, a new chat window. The squeeze on my heart, your invisible hand clutching, controller.

I must answer it!

Immediately, now! Now, now, now - there is no later! I must do it now or someone'll be angry with me! It doesn't matter that it's not you, as I am still chained, locked down and chained, the heavy shroud of death laid over my shoulders, loathe to release me.

Death almost had me. Maybe he doesn't like having his trophies taken from him either.

Not handling crowds. Oh, I never had social anxiety. It was never anxiety over crowds, not in that way. But there were too many people, suddenly, when there was no problem before.

If people were too close, I was in danger. If people clustered in, there could be something wrong. I would be in the way, in their way, they wouldn't want me there. They'd cut me out, leave me out, and then where would I be? I had to be quiet, be amenable, do the right thing, say the right thing, be in the right place, whether friends or strangers on the street.

Back and forth, back and forth. It's funny how the bathroom became a safe place, so many trips to the bathroom, trying to find a break, a moment in which to breathe, to catch my breath, to lean over.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

Like it's that fucking easy.

Some people jump when surprised but my startle response escalated, my feet lifting from the ground when frightened, whipping around.

Fight or flight! Which will I choose? Choose now - immediately!

A doorbell ringing, the phone ringing, a car door slamming, someone moving. Anything could set me off, adrenaline pouring through me, my blood pumping, every nerve in my body tingling and pulsing as if there was a need for it.

It's no way to live. Time after time, thinking that you're about to be harmed, that you're not safe. Again and again, day in and day out, there's no escaping it when something as small as a cough can have you lunging, heart pounding, lungs gasping for air.

You left me with that. Another fear. And what did you have to show for all the harm you caused?

Men. Looming, bulky figures, ones that towered over me. The blocky cut of the shoulders, breath catching, feeling intimidated, taking a step back. Watching for the threat to go, not wanting my space invaded. I struggle to allow men into my spaces even now, waiting and watching for the threat, which my mind still believes is there, to come.

I watch them out of the corners of my eyes, my back to the wall. What will I do if they attack me? I know because I run through defence mechanisms in my mind, verbal and physical. I feel like I have to be ready, at all times, because there's nothing there to say whether they will harm me or not.

I don't trust them. It took me a long time to start to trust others again. I'm not there yet. And not with the men that my mind tells me are a threat. Because, more often than not, they're the same kind of man that you were, if that could even be called a man.

Real men don't hurt others.

Real men don't do what you did to me.

The fear, the fear... Checking windows are closed, that doors are locked, closing curtains - "in case someone is watching me". It's day in, every day, jumping because I think I see someone where they're not supposed to be, watching me.

Watching, watching, watching.

How is anyone supposed to escape that?

If I pushed the memories down, locked them away, I thought I could run from them. I thought I could forget them forever, I thought I could move on. It's a fair assumption and something I would expect from anyone. Only, the brain doesn't work like that. If you don't work through something, processing it, everything remains as it was, in the moment. Everything feels like it's happening over and over again, painful, cutting, present in the moment.

The past becomes the present. And it was never meant to be that.

On high alert washing the dishes, tensing when I hear someone walk past outside, waiting for footsteps, even pulling away from games because there was something there, even then, that made me fearful.

Memories are powerful. Even more so when you don't allow them to process. We can't help that sometimes.

But you could have helped it. You didn't have to make me fearful, you didn't have to hurt me, you didn't have to do a single one of the things that you did.

I'm less fearful now, but my mind still knows those patterns. It remembers, with a little less pain. That's because of me, not you. Never you. You would not deserve such an honour.

Maybe one day I'll stop jumping. Maybe one day I'll stop watching. Maybe one day, the fear will be gone where it is not needed.

Maybe.

I'm not convinced.

Maybe that's the fear talking.

One day, I'll know.