It was estimated that we would be traveling for about half a week or so before arriving at our final destination of Cookham. I was excited, albeit a bit nervous, to make a new start in this life and I was keen to see what new adventures awaited me outside the small provincial medieval village that I had made home. I was eager to see what else lie ahead for me in the 10th century, and I was eager to leave the darkness and shadows of the past behind me and move on.
The long hours of the journey ahead offered me the perfect opportunity to become better acquainted with my new companions. Moreover, the travel offered me some much-needed respite from a broken heart that had been otherwise plagued with grief. This week and a half long journey would provide both distraction and necessary time to heal. That's what I kept telling myself at least. I kept telling myself that this was a chance to rebuild my life. That I could start again, start anew...forge new connections...create new relationships.
Life on the road did allowed me to get to know my companions better and for them to get to know me...but it was still proving to be quite a challenge for me to adapt and to put the trauma of the past behind me. I found that I was frequently having nightmares throughout the night, and that I would wake up panicked, hyperventilating, and covered in a cold sweat- usually clutching onto the hilt of my sword or dagger. Sometimes, I found myself even during my waking hours drifting back to that night. Flashes of Juliette or Aldwin's dying face pervading my minds-eye. These flashes; as they could best be described; would come at random intervals- like little flashes of lightning when I would least expect it. With these emotional/mental flashes of lightning, I would also soon find that my heart would swiftly drop down into my stomach (it was like the kind of drop feeling you get right before descending down a rollercoaster or when you see something that truly startles you- it's the kind of feeling that's quick and jarring); and it was the kind of drop where your heart drops down then slingshots back up into your throat...and you think you're going to choke on it...and God by all accounts it honestly feels like you're going to choke...you can't breathe, you can't think of anything except for the fact that you can't breathe...and your heart is vibrating and pounding away like the drums of war. This feeling lasts for what feels like an eternity but what's actually only a few seconds and then...just like that it's gone. It wasn't pleasant not in the least bit. I was basically self-diagnosed now with some kind of PTSD or anxiety disorder with absolutely no way of seeking out any kind of therapy or treatment for it (because surprise surprise folk's psychiatrist's and diazepam wasn't invented yet). My only comfort in this situation was that I was at least able to keep it to myself and that I didn't wake up screaming or something. My anxiety and troubles were well mannered...well hidden...and didn't serve to burden those around me. I couldn't allow my new companions to see how fragile I truly was; I was fighting for their respect, for their acceptance...and while I knew that there wasn't anything to be ashamed of and that there wasn't anything wrong with how my brain was reacting...a part of me needed to hide it...wanted to hide it even...if not for others, than for myself. I knew I was in denial, and I knew that it wasn't healthy what I was doing...but I found myself doing it anyway. Like an ostrich I buried my head in the sand...and I buried that shit deep.
Time would heal all wounds- I told myself the stupid cheesy saying over and over again...even though I honestly only half believed it. Time had gotten me into this mess to begin with...so maybe I felt a tad bit entitled to some reparations from it.
As the journey progressed I did get somewhat better, and the nightmares lessened a little bit day by day, as I tried to keep my mind focused ahead (distract, distract, distract, bury, bury, bury...that's the mantra for a woman who really doesn't like to deal with her shit...put a band-aid on the crack of the dam to keep its waters temporarily at bay and to keep its foundation repaired...just deal with the fallout on another day).
YOU ARE READING
The Maiden Who Fell Through Time
Narrativa StoricaIn the 3rd century there is a story which tells of a man whom had carried a child across a river; a child unbeknownst to him, who was later revealed to be a savior. Time is fluid. It flows like the stream of a river, and also grows like the tendril...
