Again

(warning: adult content and triggers)

She had a box. It was her treasure box she said. She pulled it out to show me. And when she opened it up everything went crossways.

Yesterday my dog brought in a dead baby bunny. I made her take it outside and leave it. Dogs do these things. It made me sad, and let's face it, it was gross. I cleaned up the droplets of blood in the house. I told myself it was okay. People have to deal with these things all the time. I called my husband and he said he was sorry he hadn't been here to take care of it.

But I couldn't let go of the incident. I felt the panic rising in my chest. I had flashes of pictures in my head that I tried desperately to shake away. 

The box is divided into little squares. In each square is a skull of a small animal. She begins to tell me what each one is, and how she killed it. She looks at me and tells me she will do the same things to me. Just like the kitten. The kitten that she strangled with the chain on the swing while I watched, after she took him from me. The kitten that she skinned the whole time telling me that's what she'd do to me it I told anyone.

I can't get the image of Lucy/me as that dead bunny out of my head. That baby bunny who didn't do anything wrong, but had its life cut short. And I know animals aren't people, but when the comparison is made when you are 5 years old, and in such a visceral way, it's hard to let it go.

These are not memories or pictures I want in my head. I don't want to remember how Lucy felt in that moment, and I don't want to feel guilty for still struggling with it now. But I do. Lucy and I could have been that bunny. A life cut short for no good reason.

So I cry and I hurt. I breathe deeply. I color a picture. I watch too much TV. But somewhere in it all, I remind myself that it is in the past. I survived it then, and I'm still surviving the memories.

There are no pithy wrap-ups. There is just another memory to be dealt with -- again.

Writing and Bunnies

I sat at my computer last night. I don't spend time at my desk at night as a rule. But last night I was alone in the house and started looking at old posts. 

I read words I had written over the past several months. I read comments people had made. And I thought again how blogging is like a public diary. I can write for someone else to read, about all manner of things, some of them extremely personal, but I can't consistently write just for me.

When this all started it was for and about me. Lately I feel more and more compelled to make it meaningful. What I notice is the harder I try to attain that, the less meaning there is. If I write as if to myself, my true voice comes out. But if I shift my gaze for even a moment, that performer comes to the service -- shine, be impressive, get attention, make them proud. That doesn't help anyone, least of all me.

I sat and I read. And I stopped and I watched through my window as families went on walks, and runners work out the day's tension. I saw a bunny hop about in my yard nibbling clover. It hunkered down in the grass at the barking of a dog. Wild rabbits are slick and muscular. This one I've watched grow through the spring and into the summer. He's not skittish in the way I usually think of rabbits. He seems assured and confident. He just knows when it's better to run.

Maybe I need to take a few lessons from my summer friend.

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