Post-traumatic Girl

This move across the country has been stalking me like a cockroach at night. It climbs up into my throat and I wake up gasping.

There is nothing there.

We talk about it in the morning, and we list all of the good things, the incredible things, the hopeful things, the murder rate, the blight, the color of the politicians. We start again at the top.

I walk through the day groggy. Determined. Off-kilter.

In this post-traumatic world where choices must be made, choices must be made, choices must be made. The oak casket or the metal? Blue shirt or red?

You can't choose the red. They stare at me unthinkingly.


I can feel the pressure on the back of my skull.
Is that what joy feels like?
Is someone knocking to come in?


I go over everything again. One more time.

I agree to celebration drinks. I buy a new dress to teach in.

I compare myself to myself. I compare myself to others. I compare myself to Bandit. My silent dog has begun crying at strange times. I inspect each inch of pee-stained fur. I cannot find what is wrong. There is no explanation.

I beg him to please tell me.
He looks at me. 

He returns to silence.

I announce that I am ready to begin again. I am ready to be happy. I will hit the ground like a new life ninja warrior. Bandit, My Sancho Panda.

As if I could plan it all out in advance.

I am supposed to keep these doubts to myself.

This is an Important Moment.

So many expectations, given to me like the gentle corrections of the yoga teacher who didn't ask to touch me.

I was so proud just for arriving at class.

Once I find an apartment and see the city, perhaps the cockroaches will only be in between the walls.
They already know. They whisper in my sheets.
The creatures who can't be killed.
I nod in their direction. I hear it is a wonderful climate there for a post-traumatic girl.

Namaste.