boxing gloves.

May 28, 2012 § 3 Comments

I am angry. I am so angry. Most of the time I manage to hide it or quench it, but this morning there is little hope of that – especially with articles like this one popping up on my news feed: http://www.sundaytimes.lk/120527/News/nws_21.html. “The girl, who cannot be named owing to her age – 16 years and 7 months – had, on the previous night, been allegedly repeatedly raped by the 27-year-old Saudi national, after he had paid a huge sum of money to a local human trafficker for a virgin female sex slave.”

In the turning of black and white paper, in the mugshots snapped and tacked to my wall, in the stories briefly croaked out, in all I see the details I have heard. In every face, the face of her. I am to compartmentalise you say? How, exactly, does that work? Do I just take her living and breathing reality and section it off in my diary alongside cleaning, seeing Kate for coffee and emailing the florist? Is that how it works? When I’m driving – left with only my thoughts for company – do I turn on Radio 1 and strain with all I have to care that Fern Cotton finds men with beards funny? Or do I chant mundane sentences to myself in an attempt to forget, to not think any more, to stop thinking all together? When I lay down at night and slug to sleep how do I compartmentalise then? How do I stop the dreams that keep coming – that never stop coming – of drowning and pushing with all my heart for air though she’s too heavy, and I can’t hold her up and when I think I’ve just about managed it he’s there – weighing her down again.

Of course, I understand what you are intending. I agree with your wisdom. And so I tell you that I’m okay, I garble out some feelings on a subject before spinning the conversation back round, hopeful that there it will stay. I do miss you; your freedom and lightness and softness of heart. I envy what you have and if my arms weren’t so heavy I would reach for it in the hope of grasping hold of it and being restored.

I will turn to another set of arms instead, scarred and pierced and yet lighter than mine, more capable of lifting me up to where you are. I do not want to stay here.

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§ 3 Responses to boxing gloves.

  • Chris says:

    Wow. Debz (do people still call you that… Or is it just me?), this, and other parts of this blog, are so stirring and challenging!

    You write so so well.

  • Yes Chris, people still call me that! Thank you for your encouragement; it’s good to know that what I write can be affective. I love reading your student blog – you write well yourself!

  • Sarah Sambles says:

    Wow Debs, you have summarised your feelings so succintly! Your writing flows and takes me into the space you must have been that day. I wish I could write like that! It was great to meet you last week and God bless you with your project. Sarah Sambles

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