Meet Me At My Level

Chapter 4 - Just A Conversation

Another night filled with white noise in my head and not the slightest hint of drowsiness to send me off into the night's abyss of slumber. I could hear the cords next door of Tye's electric guitar being played and wondered if he was working on the song he asked me to critique with Shawn.

Sighing I grabbed my laptop, National Geographic still playing in the background as I clicked the bookmark containing my blog of creative writing pieces. I decided I needed to invest more time into something that used to make me feel so alive. Before events turned...dark.

Shaking the thoughts from my head before I could allow them to consume me, I pressed "+ write" and decided to share the thoughts that consumed me this evening. 

It's funny how trauma teaches you how to shield the world from penetrating your soul, how through the endless puncturing and pain that consumes you, a shield is developed. 

It's funny how that shield becomes your accessory, pairing it with everything to ensure the day is survivable. It's ironic that in order to develop that shield, pain needs to be inflicted to ensure proper development.

Why do they say that the stronger you are, the more you're able to allow yourself to feel, the threat is no longer there and you can let go, relax? 

Family, friends, and randoms will tell you how strong you are for making it through. As if there is another option. As if this was a path I wanted to be on. But here I am, using this shield to block out any and all emotion.

I've been so numb for so long that removing that shield earlier today made me feel too vulnerable, too...seen.

I've relied on my shield for so long because it's kept me safe, it's kept me alert, it's kept me sane.

So why does the electricity feel so inviting, so warm, asking me to let it in?

Clicking publish, I allowed my blog piece to be sent out into the world under my screen name - KitKattt. I scrolled down the list of the pieces I wrote in the past, remembering a time when all I did was write. They don't prepare you for life, school, parents, movies, anyone. You get on the ramp feeling ready to immerse with the speed that everyone else was going on not realizing that you weren't allowed to break. What about those of us who survived traumatic events, those of us who are trying to find what it means to be ourselves. To know who we are, to feel settled in our skin again. Sometimes life just seemed so...unfair.

"UGH!" I screamed, clearly frustrated that my mind wanted to get so deep and dark at this time of day. Decided to not think for once, I got up, grabbed my keys and phone and left my apartment, and straight to Tye's. After locking my door, I knocked on Tye's door and rocked on the heels of my feet. Before I could turn away and kick myself in the ass for thinking this was a worthy idea, Tye opened his door. 

The music wafted from out his apartment and into the hall encasing me in the electricity that seemed to buzz within the shallows of my bones. Tye's stubbled and sharp jawline met my eye line causing me to look up and meet his soft eyes. He smiled then, "hey Kat, did I disturb you again tonight? I'm sorry. I can turn it down"

"No no" I reached out my hand and placed it on his forearm, "that's not why I came here. I uhh, I wanted to know if I could sit inside for a bit? I know it's weird of me to ask but my head is exploding with thoughts I don't want to address and you're the closest person I know that I feel somewhat comfortable disturbing at this late hour".

Tye's body shifted then, exposing the rest of his apartment, with the wave of his hand he invited me in, "not a problem, I'm always done for some company".

I smiled sheepishly realizing that I barely knew this guy and was now asking to just sit in his apartment. Looking around I noticed how artsy his character displayed in his living space. The way the exposed brick complimented the amps sitting alongside the drumset. Numerous guitars were hanging on his walls, all shapes, sizes, and colors that looked like I was in a museum. The other side of his wall had types of vinyl mounted on top of the TV, meeting the ceiling. An old Turkish rug lay underneath his drumset with a leather couch facing across from it. His kitchen was simple, black and white with hints of grey. His place felt more lived-in than my own, and he just moved in here.