Two minutes

The truth is I am moody. I need a lot of time to process events before I decide how I feel about them, and the busier I am the more unrealistic this “think time” becomes and so I wander around with all my emotions jumbled up in my tummy.

I storm, moody, brooding, and usually, I’m not even sure why… at least not immediately.

I have enough self-awareness to know that my response is a disproportionate reaction to whatever just happened, the thing that set me off, but I am too far-gone to find the real cause. Everything is overwhelming and nothing will make it better, and I want everyone and everything to GO AWAY! I don’t want you to touch or try to cheer me up. And I don’t want to explain myself because nothing makes sense anyway.

She watches me stomp around the room, cleaning because I’m pissed and I need to create order. The chaos of my inner terrain suddenly seeming manageable if I could just get the house straightened up, if only the toys were put away. I can feel her watching me, but I ignore her because I am pretty sure I am mad at her too even though as I fume around I cant really articulate why. I can’t think. It doesn’t matter. It’s her fault anyway… probably.

Finally, when I have put the room back together, she says from her seat on the couch “Come here” with her arms outstretched. I turn halfway in the direction of her voice and eye her suspiciously with a sidelong glance. Undeterred, she says “Just for two minutes.” Without wanting to, my feet, ignoring the stubborn hurt devouring my stomach, begin to propel me towards her. “I’ll even time it for you,” she says messing with her phone. I slide in beside her on the couch. Effortlessly my head finds its place in the curve of her neck. With my ear to her chest, I can hear her heartbeat. With my hand resting on her abdomen, I can feel her breathing. And slowly I forget everything that came before the moment I found myself. right. here. The two minutes pass, and now I don’t want to move. I don’t know why I was upset before. I don’t care. I just want to live here. Forever. Or for at least as long as possible.

It took twenty-seven years to realize that most of the time, I don’t need to fix or defend anything. I just need to be held. And it took someone as moody as me to be brave enough to offer, and when I resisted, to insist in such a way that I could no longer refuse.


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