Category: midnight thoughts

Tales From the Front Line – The Scenes In-Between

Trigger warning: Sexual assault, rape, – not detailed.

Life is layered. More than one thing happens at a time.

So far, I have chosen to write about the things that shaped me in singular observations, (my birth, my Nana, my father). There will be more of these singular stories to come, those people/ times that I feel warrant their own lengthy viewing. But life is not just made up of the big ongoing events, there are single moments and encounters that have had a profound effect on me. These scenes did not necessarily involve main players in my life, not all were bad tragedies either. But to understand how the mental patterns in my head have been reenforced, it is important to understand the little things that have happened to solder the wiring of my brain.

I was about six. My Nana had a neat little house with blue trim and white picket fence. It seemed out of place next to the main road way that ran in front of it. There was always traffic, sirens at any time of day.  On this particular beautiful day I was playing on the front step. The usual bustle of traffic going by, when a car veered off the road, crossed my Nana’s lawn, onto her neighbour’s and crashed into the front of the house. The car had been going at quite the speed, it hit the next door house with such force the driver flew through his windshield and through the front window of the house. I watched all of this with a front row view from my Nana’s stoop. I still feel startled when I remember this. I think it made me a little less trusting that things are always going to be good. That we could trust feeling safe. 

In the giant back yard of this same little house, I would open hours lying on the grass, looking at the sky. Playing in the dirt and holding court with the plants. The coolness under the crab apple tree in the heat of summer, was a welcome refuge for a tea party. My Nana and I would take lawn chairs out in the middle of the yard and have tea and she would tell me about the different birds we’d spot, using my Papa’s ancient binoculars. These are some of the times I really felt connected. I did not have the language then, that I do now, I am blessed to be able to recall this feeling in my very marrow when I am out in nature, walking in the woods, playing in my garden. That are some of the most peaceful, spiritual moments I have. I am glad I had that in my childhood early on. It left a positive imprint on me, one that I seek out as healthy self care.

In that same little house I loved the kitchen, the bath tub and wooden toilet seat in her bathroom (seriously, as a kid I would be in there for hours reading, it was the most comfortable seat in the house.). I hated the basement. It was old, three quarters finished, cold. Filled me with the worst dread. I have nightmares of hiding near the washer and dryer in that basement. It was in that basement I was molested by a male relative. He would drag me down there to play hide and seek. I think he was about five or six years older than me. He’d find me, and lay himself on top of me and rub himself on me, asking if I wanted to play hotdog. My Mom and Nana upstairs and I couldn’t tell them or he said he’d beat me up, plus it was just a game, he’d try to convince me. It happened three or four times. This reenforced me giving in for peace, and not having any power. 

There was a boy who lived across the street from where I grew up. He was five years older than me. All the girls on my street had mad crushes on him. My parents let him babysit me when my sisters weren’t around for the task. He would wait till my folks were gone and pull me into the room under the stairs where we kept all of the board games. He would kiss me, with his tongue. It always felt so gross, he kept trying to jam the slimy thing in my mouth. He was so well loved in the neighbourhood I couldn’t tell. I knew it didn’t feel good, but everyone loved him so something must be wrong with me. I feel uneasy thinking about this, another early betrayal of trust. Another early experience of betraying myself and my instinct because it would ruffle others. I struggle with this still.

I was eight years old when Raiders of the Lost Ark came out. There was a little gang of us that hung out, I was one of the youngest. It was summer and the kids got permission to be able to see a movie with out parents. It was so exciting. My Mom was reluctant but I told her it was just a little adventure movie, it would be fine. Yeah, that melting scene at the end… I had nightmares for weeks after. But it was worth it. That sense of freedom I had when I was out with my friends. That was the moment I knew I really do love my independence to experience different things with different people. And considering how anxious I can be, I love scary movies, I like controllable fear.

I could devote a few paragraphs to the multiple times I have been sexually violated in my life. I have thought long and hard, and rather than dissect each one, looking at them en mass  has shown me is that a victim needs to feel heard. They need to be believed. That you can’t make assumptions of how these things will happen. I was assaulted as a young teen at a party with my sisters friends. I never told her, but her brother in law saved me. I was raped at a high school party. I was molested by a female classmate in elementary school. I understand how these things reenforced my lack of self worth. My being invisible unless there was a use for me. I can see how this had started to create that constant need for validation, that I was good, I was wanted, loved.

The absolute rush I got in grade six, the first time I wrote and directed a play. It was well received and elaborate. The first time I saw my words in print, in grade one, a story in the inter school magazine. The first time I won an award for one of my plays in high school. The first time I treated a client as a professional, not a massage therapy student. The first time I taught a class. The first birth I was asked to attend as a helper. Sitting one fall day and listening to a homeless gentleman’s story. He thanked me, for reminding him he was human. All of these things made me feel so incredibly useful. So needed for the right reasons. Any time I can connect, through touch, through words, teaching, I still get that same feeling. A warm rush, like I am glowing, plugged  into the universal energy. That I have purpose.

I can see how these things all fit in to help create light and dark. I am sensitive to those that feel unseen. I love to share ideas and conversation, to be truly connected. When this is out of balance I become needy, paranoid that I am repulsive, worthless. I truly want to help who I can, when I can, but I have to be mindful it is not to feed my own monsters. I can not seek adulation, gratitude, indebtedness, acceptance, love as the payment for being of service. When I start to feel the “what about me and my needs” whine start, I am learning to step back and see if there is an underlying cause or if I am just depleted.

It will always be an inner dance, a negotiation. Sometimes I will get it right. Sometimes I won’t. That’s human. it is something we will all do. But not all of us will try to learn from it, try to grow from it. You can’t have the expectation that life will become exactly what you want. But you can align a little better if you’re willing to work at it.

Thanks for reading.

Faith

Energy. It is the basis of everything. 

I believe it is all connected. 

I believe we are all connected.

I believe we are here to learn. 

I believe we are here to help each other.

I believe in past lives.

I believe that a multiverse is a probability.

Energy never ceases to exist. It just changes.

I believe not everything is predestined.

I believe in timeless connections

I believe in soul families

I believe in levelling up

I believe in being of service

I believe in love

Tales From the Front Line: Born Under a Bad Sign

I need, I covet validation. I crave being wanted, admired and adored. But it is never enough. When I don’t get the constant feed and attention my monsters being their chant of worthlessness. “You are forgotten, you are invisible, you are not worth enough to notice.” This refrain will build to ‘they know’. “They see how broken and used you are. They see how worthless you are and have moved on, they will turn away in disgust.”

In part of the program I am using we are encouraged to look at our traumas, what we used to survive and how that may have set the stage for patterning later on. The ‘first’ thing that I am evaluating was not my first remembered trauma. There were violations that had taken place before the conversation that comes to mind. However, looking back, this highlights that even before birth there was a chance I was being wired with little sense of independent self worth.

Something my Mother told me before she died, that had happened when she was pregnant with me. Both my parents had been married before. Both had children from those marriages. The vague story I had been told for my very young years was the typical- they met, fell in love, got married and had me. As I got older and more adept at math I realized that my Mother would have actually been pregnant with me when they got married (I am a March baby and my parents got married in August). When I was about nine, I came across my parents marriage certificate in a random box. The story changed yet again. I was born in 1973, they were married in 1973, August, not 1972- I was actually five months old when they got married. This discovery was upsetting for a bit, except neither of my parents would talk about it, no one in the family did. They just brushed it aside, like it was not real.

It wasn’t until my Mother knew that she was at the end of her life that she told me the following. It came in whispers in her hospital room. I was twelve. It’s funny, I know she spoke in quiet tones as it took great effort to speak by then, but to this day I hear each word with a deafening volume. “Oh baby doll, I am so sorry.”

“For what Mommy?” I had gone back to calling her mommy when we were together some months before, I was so scared of losing her and it made me feel like such a baby.

“For leaving you with all of this. You’re so young. I am sorry, so sorry you have to fend for yourself. I am sorry about your father.”

“Mommy, I don’t understand. But it’s going to be ok. I am going to be ok.”

“It’s not Baby doll, you need to know, and I am so sorry.” I held tightly to her dry hand, we had lowered the railing on the hospital bed. I leaned over from my chair and laid my head on her stomach. The hum and beeps of the monitors crisply present. The dry antiseptic smell of the hospital room, the faint smell of decay coming from my Mother. How hollow and small she felt. It had been weeks since she had been able to have more than liquids, cancer had been feasting on her for four years. Softly she began to stroke my hair.

“Dee Dee, I don’t want to leave you, I worry. Nana is already gone. I am so sorry. I love you my baby doll. But you should know I never wanted you.” The sting cut deep, I could feel tears coming, I tried my best to hold my breath, not to say a word. It really had to be the drugs she was on, to tell me this now. I held back the tears, remained quiet. By this age I was well versed on not expressing much emotion. It was a matter of safety sometimes, staying calm was important.

She poured out the story of how I came to be. By accident. She was thirty-two, divorced, two children (9/11) and living with her Mother. My father was divorced, three children (8/10/13) with which he had a fractured relationship.

They were not an entirely serious item. (I would come to learn later, by accident of finding an old cassette, how ‘party fuelled’ their relationship was). She had no intention of having another child. She thought it proper (although she didn’t tell me why) to tell him. For many years after I questioned why she should have told him at all, until I was faced with a similar decision.

My father begged her to have the baby. He made good money and could provide a comfortable home for her, her two girls and a baby. She would not have to work. He wanted a chance at having another family. To make this one work. I truly believe she had no idea the muck she was entering into. She eventually agreed. The whole time she spoke, she stroked my hair, and periodically remind me that she loved me and how sorry she was.

This woman, who had a choice, who did her best given the circumstance and time. She believed she was creating a future for her and her children by agreeing to my father’s suggestion. I was a trade, a bartering chip. Yet I also know I was loved by her.

She did her best to shelter me from some of the darker moments of my young life. As I grew older, more aware and she got sicker, she did her best to keep me safe. It was becoming more volatile with my father as he became more unhinged. We spent hours driving around, hiding, or keeping the house in lock down. She would try to keep me distracted by TV, crafts and food.

To think of it, it felt like a moment of clarity had hit me. (I realize now that this was the first real identifiable monster rally, where my safety/survival mechanisms failed me.) I was a bad trade. Somehow all this horror had been my fault. I was not good enough. My Mother had placed her hope in the thought that bringing me into the world would create something better. Instead she lived with a psychotic alcoholic and was dying, painfully and slowly. I had failed in my job. I had taken her mother from her (That is a whole other blog). My very existence was supposed to make life better, yet it was not good at all. These were the thoughts created, that I had no human value, I was a very worthless trade commodity.

My Mother never framed it to me that she blamed me for anything. She kept apologizing, she kept stroking my hair. She carried so much guilt about bringing me into this life, that she did not follow her original instinct, and now I was being left to fend as best as I could. She felt remiss at how young I was.

I was in anguish over her pain. I felt it so deeply. Somewhere buried a lot of anger formed to. So much had happened to me by then, I had an easy time believing I was poison, damaged. Another monster being given strength was the one that has me utterly convinced at times that if I could always be what was needed and useful, I may be able to keep my true vile nature hidden. and I would not be alone. This would become a reenforced thought pattern over time affected by other traumas and behaviours. I had for many years seen my self as a useful commodity, worthy of use but not love.

There was buried anger but all in all I still carried a fairly idealized picture of my Mother, even after her admission of not wanting me. I did not have a ‘whole’ view of her until more recently. I had discovered an old cassette tape a couple of years ago. The beginning part of it is me (I am about age 4) and my Mom talking about the dog we had at the time. It is a sweetly beautiful moment that was captured. But as I have come to expect, most of my sweet moments can be tinged with salt.

The tape went on, there was a click of it being shut off, and another click of it being turned on again. There is a party in the background, voices I have not heard since I was a child. My Mother holding court as a story teller. She told the story of the night I was born, amongst other tales. I had never been told about the night of my birth, and now I know why. The details broke my heart, some being told to humiliate my father. It showed me that my Mother had not only traded me, she had traded pieces of herself too. She was bitter, even from the start. I have not let a soul hear the second part. It stoked the fires of some of the monsters and emotions in me that I am still processing. Reenforcing again my damaged core. My failures, my unworthiness. That I needed to work harder to please, to earn a place in my life.

From birth the seeds had been sown for the never ending reassurance, the never-ending need to be wanted. “Fill me up. Tell me I am worthy. Love me. I will be exactly the girlfriend/friend/employee that you need. Because if you see what I truly am…………”

But the seeds were also sown for my ability to ‘see’ people with compassion and love. What I crave, but seldom trust that I am worthy of. My nature of wanting people to know they have worth, that I appreciate every kindness and connection they bring to my life. I love when I can do this well. It is destructive when I can’t.

I will learn to cultivate the seeds of love and compassion for myself, for that little baby that had no idea what was coming. Forgiveness.

Tales From the Front Line War Cry

I have been committed to working on myself in one form or another for some time now. However there was a series of events ( some unfortunate….. oh Lemony Snicket, insert eye roll here), slowly happening over the last couple of years, culminating in a few things last fall that showed me there are things in my life that are not working for me.

Coping mechanisms I use, that no longer help as well as they once did. Things I believed I created, that would protect and support me, now proving to be much in the way of smoke and mirrors. Loop around patterns that get me no where. There are beautiful moments of grace as well, but all have obvious signs that I need to be doing something’s differently. By the Goddess’ grace I am only half way through my journey on this plane. I know I have work to do, and I need to do it with out always having a battle going on in the background. I deserve better. 

When you decide to make changes, level up, go to battle purposefully with the monsters in your head, there is not a single battle front. The offence/defence must be mounted on multiple fronts. I had to look at the health of many things in my life, my physical health, mental health, the health of my relationships, the health of my relationship to my self. I have to be willing to be honest, to own what I can. To find acceptance of self, light and dark. To see the beauty and power in all of the pieces of me. To change what I can. So I had to start somewhere.

Physical help: For me, conventional anxiety/depression medications have not proven helpful. I am grateful they exist and so many are helped. But for me the negative side effects far outweigh any positives. In my profession I am a vocal supporter of patient knowledge and advocacy for diagnosis and medication. If a client tells me something does not seem right I encourage them to keep on their doctors, research and ask questions until they get answers. I did not do this well enough for myself in the last few years. I have been on a drug for the last four years, ( it’s very common) that I take as prescribed for a genetic condition. The whole time I have been taking it, my doctor has been upping the dose, to get me to the documented acceptable level. The current dose I am on was prescribed 2.5 years ago. Too high of a dose of this medication can have similar symptoms to my GAD. I had noticed that I was beginning to get hot flashes, my anxiety levels were climbing and my ‘control’ tools were not as effective. Then I asked my doctor if the meds were perhaps the culprit, I was met with, ” we have the textbook level we need in your blood, you are heading into your mid 40s and probably menopause and you have existing mental health issues.” I was inclined to agree with him. But no less concerned at the blazé way my concerns were met with. Even if this was a result of the inevitable menopause, this does not sound like a fun way to live, so perhaps some suggestions?!

I did a little more research into this medication on my own and found that a too high dose can result in muscle pain, anxiety, short temper, skin issues, changes in menstruation and ‘foggy’ brain. Now to be fair my diagnosed GAD does present with many of these issues as well. I have over the years employed coping mechanisms that would help me manage or mask in a situation. Those coping strategies seemed to no longer work as effectively as they had. I felt twitchy most of the time. I am now working with a new doctor who is willing to explore the idea of adjusting the dosage to see if it will lessen the GAD symptoms that seem to be heightened.

There were healthy habits that I let go by the wayside. Three years ago, I was doing some kick ass exercise, I had never in my life looked so physically good. The shear physical challenge of it was also helping to keep my twitchiness at bay. It worked well for a time. I was strong, I was confident. But slowly the monsters in my head starting getting fed. I have a super power of being able to overthink a conversation and distill all the meaning out of it. I will analyze, and at times laser focus on a statement, a nuance, and it will burn into my memory. Well, these beasts fed off of comments said in frustration and perceived slights. These things really weren’t rooted on my physical changes, but from other life issues, but man oh man can those monsters twist and hyper focus like pros. These barbs took root and poison bled from them. Vocally however, I mostly used my shoulder injury as the main reason I stopped exercising.

It was so very wrong of me to give up. To fall into the entrenched pattern of ‘fixing’ things by being destructive to myself. Of course this created another chorus of monsters reminding me I am not worthy to be noticed. I am not worthy to be confident in who I really am. I am only valued when I am who others want/need me to be. This struggle has lamely toggled back and forth for the last year and a half. A couple of weeks ago I recommitted to building my physical strength again, for myself, monsters be damned. But this act did open the gates of hell in my head. I am still trying to nail that shut. I am fearful for phantom reasons, and I can recognize that. But I have begun.

I really had to look at my mental health. I am very aware of my defined diagnosis, GAD and a few assorted add ons. But what I was really wanting to look at was my life and my mental health, I mean ‘How the fuck did I get here? How and why were these monsters created? What am I responsible for? Can I really change anything after all this time? Or will this be the same ‘wait it out’ battle for the rest of my life? I have known for sometime in my heart that things could/should be different. With help, I have been working with a program for the last month, it falls in line with behaviour modification and retraining the brain to respond differently, mindfully. It is hard, it is scary. I am honouring myself by taking it slowly. I have also incorporated more spiritual work in my life as well. Both the spiritual practice and the cognitive mental health practices I am working on have lead me to the same path. It is suggested in both places to be very specific about what I want to work on. Not to take on everything at once. To have patience and to trust. To ask for help when I need it, to be honest on my path and to help others where I can. To do my best to practice non judgment on myself. To accept the darker parts of who I am.

I decided to look at something that does not make me feel very good, it is hard on relationships and it is all around exhausting. I want to understand my need to be acknowledged, adored, needed and valued. It is a constant. It is vacuous, never ending yaw. It skews things for me. I am never satisfied, I am never calmed or reassured enough. Why do I fear being invisible, abandoned? The continuous need to be reassured that I am valid, seen. How was this behaviour created? Where do we begin?

Study your trauma (get help here if you need it), study your response, see how that pattern either serves or not now. In the spiritual world, you are doing shadow work. Have help, have guidance, have support. It may feel like a very lonely trip at times, being that far inward, but you will want to have back up. Some of the monsters you may encounter along the way were formed in traumas that for the moment may still have the ability to pull you apart. Have people you can trust, who will not judge, have professionals near too, just in case. Have your spiritual help, the Gods and Goddess’ that you can call upon, who will anchor you, connect with you, so you will know you are not alone.

Be prepared that some of what you may face may not be from this current existence. Generational trauma that can be passed in the DNA. Trauma experienced by the Mother while pregnant. Past life traumas, energetic bindings that may need to be explored, healed, repaired or cut. It is complex.

As you travel the road to your inner core self, keep in mind you will not like parts of who you are. You may also fall deeply in love with other unknown pieces of yourself too. You will not be able to change all of it to love and light, you should not want to. There is much to love and value in our shadow sides. Do your best with the wounds that fester and weep. Gently clean the scar tissue of other wounds and admire how all of this has brought you forward.

Strength, Determination. Love. Acceptance.

Draw your mirror, your sword, your heart and your breath. The Shadow work has begun.

The Precipice

This is the best part of the morning. First light, just breaking the horizon. I close my eyes,  the light breaking on to my face. My full trust that Thrakena will keep me safe. 

It’s cold and clear up here. The light feels like fire on my face. There is silence, only broken by the gentle whoosh of my beasts great wings. Holding us steady in the air. She too holds an appreciation of the coming light. The heat suits her fire nature. We are one when we fly. My legs working a rhythm with her muscles. After all this time it has become an effortless union. We can read each other in subtle shifts, nudges. She has a rich, warm cinnamon smell, it fills my nose and warms me as I lean my head against her broad neck. Feeling the sinew strain against my thighs as she pushes cooly upward. 

It had been too long since we had just flown for fun. I needed this moment. Freedom, with the one creature I could trust. My hair blows back behind me and Thrakena takes a steep drop- it feels like a free fall. I hug in closer, my heart beating hard against my chest. The sting of the frigid air against my cheek. My breath quickens, A delicious tension exists between my body and her’s. Knowing when to lean into and away from each other. Another massive thrust with her hind legs and we once again burst upward through the light gossamer clouds to meet the light coming over the horizon. “Hold steady for me, will you?” My companion aquiesces, slowing the beat of her massive leathery wings once again, to allow us to hover in the light, stolen time.

We only have but a moment left. I push into her harder, “I don’t want to go.” She turns her head toward me. I see the emerald brilliance of her eye, clear and wise. She nods ever so slightly. 

Burying my face in the soft leather of her large scales. “Not yet may friend. This is pure magic, soul filling freedom.”

She dives into a subjacent trajectory. I hold my breath, keeping my eyes closed against the stinging wind. I hear the ringing in my ears, the sound starts from far away, begins to fill my head. 

Deep inside I feel my soul begin to split. “No not yet.” I plead to the air, Thrakena picking up speed as we descend. 

The ringing gets louder as we go faster. The time has come, it must begin.

Light on the Other Side

It can not be all tragedy, twitches and triggers.

This shadow work has also begun to highlight pieces of me that are beautiful, spiritual, mysterious, loving and strong.

My capacity to love is deep. I recognize wounds in others, I can see the best in most.

I want to be of service, I want to give a hand up or a soft place where I can.

I am creative, insightful and have a bawdy sense of humour.

I have an easy smile, and a big heart. I am inquisitive, I am intelligent. I am sensitive. I try to not pass judgment but to be understanding. I feel contentment just as deeply as I feel pain,

I am gentle. I am ferociously loyal. I love to laugh. 

I can feel the magic that surrounds me and moves through my senses.

I feel the elements, I have known peace.

I appreciate others, their talents, their stories.

It may take time, but I am resilient.

I am tenacious.  

I am sensitive. I cry, for joy, for sorrow, for pain, not just mine, but for all those I connect with.

These things too, were born in me, at the times the monsters were created. These things too were fostered in the same environment.

Sometimes the monsters win and I forget. 

But sometimes they don’t, and I remember, I am love, I am kindness. I can stand firm as a badass warrior. The battle scars earned, as are the moments of grace.

I will not be defined by my traumas and my mental health issues. I will be defined by how I live despite them. 

This mantra I repeat to myself often. This is why I share my story. Not for pity. Not for sympathy. Not for adulation.

But to connect. To inspire compassion, kindness and healing. To help someone find the words, as others have helped me (music can be my saviour), to soothe a damaged heart.

No, it is not all monsters and dark, it’s a wild mix of colour and light too. And I am so grateful for that.

When Anxiety Attacks

You can’t breathe

The bottom falls out of your stomach

Bile rises in your throat

Thoughts turn to fog

Eyes fill with tears

You try your tools

Distraction- can’t focus

Jaw clenches

Muscles turn to armour

Knots appear

Communication becomes harder

The prison locks down in your mind

You rationally know it is ridiculous 

Reach out?

To who- not wanting to sound dramatic…

put out a couple of ‘hey how are you? feelers’

No reply

You try (again not to be dramatic and give into the screaming in your head)

conversation, but you aren’t getting through, how you’re feeling, what is burning up your skull

Words are lost, feeling stupid and overwrought 

Fuck

Everything hurts

Down you go- like quicksand sucking at you.

Fight

Give in

Pain behind the eyes- frustrated headache

The twitches begin

Shut down, shut away

Phantom fear replacing the blood in your veins 

The communication that did not immediately gratify with a reply-

you toss aside “it doesn’t  (you don’t) matter anyway”- Monster chorus sings 

Then from behind the prison gates you hear

“Patience, no one is at the ready, no one knows you’ve tripped up, someone will come, in time”

There is no time left you fear, the monsters are guarding the prison

Try to put it into words

On paper

what it’s like- as it is happening

Cold prickles move over skin. 

Hitched breath

Fuck- Help

Leave me alone

Stay with me

Armour is tighter

Anywhere that had pain now sings with a fury

From behind the prison gates you hear a whisper

“It will pass, it always does”

But how long it will take is a mystery

The exhaustion that comes after is awful

But you pray for it now

So this hell will end

In My Head

The firmness in your stance is wavering 
Breathe 
You’ve faced this monster before
Last time it won
You rolled over, bared your belly 
let it shred you 
The wounds still throb 
But you are back 
Hands are shaking
Frustrated tears are threatening to spill
Straighten your spine 
Breathe
Grip your weapon 
Don’t lower your eyes. 
Make your pain your armour 
Let it energize you 
The last battle was lost 
But the war rages on

Speak

It’s shaky at best.

The breath.

Everything is caught.

Stifled at the throat.

Screams. Howls. Sighs. Laughter. Moans.

Jammed so full, there is no room for air to move.

Nothing comes. Just shaky breath.

It will rush in a torrent, tearing through flesh.

Release of pressure.

Nothing comes. Just shaky breath.

It has come before.

Stuffed back in.

Swallowed in searing chunks.

Humiliation. Frustration.

Jammed so full there is no room for breath.

Nothing comes. Not even shaky breath.