My hand is throbbing, the pain getting worse by the second. Now I allow it. I am in the car driving to the pharmacy with one hand, hoping to find relief there. But no—the pharmacist is so sorry, there is nothing he can give me.
Back in the car. I hear a sound—then realize it comes from me. Howls rise up, unstoppable, from the depths of my deep, dark, stuck belly. They burst out of my throat and envelope me, resonating deafeningly in the confined space of the car.
I leave my body.
I can see me through the driver’s window.
I am floating outside, a few feet above. I am watching the howling and for the outside me, it is silent. I observe “Ah—the crying: it is disproportionate to the burn.”
I am watching the levee break—the muck pouring out.
At home, the blisters are showing up fully, tumescent and translucent, rather beautiful. I am awed by this body that knows exactly what to do. That knew to keep me safe all these years from potentially devastating knowledge. And had known how to break the final dam.
I surrendered completely to the flood. I had reached the end of denial. I was ready to look at my father’s abuse.
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