5:52 p.m. - February 07, 2005
It is too quiet in my house. There, that's better: Loud music to keep me company
At work today the client inquired into whether it was I who wrote the book her daughter's class will use in the fall. My team interpreter turned to me and asked You wrote a book? and I shrugged, said yes. That was the first notice I received that Illinois adopted the book. Later, my partner said I keep too many secrets and should brag some. His comment made me smile a bit and soon the day was over.
Last Wednesday I confided in CM about the molestation in an offhand, non-chalant illustration of a point she was making. The interlude between prompt and speech was quick but I gripped the table edge and mentioned my own experience. She just looked at me, nodded, and said she had thought so, would I care to share her fries, and continued to elaborate on her point without making me feel like the words I said had disappeared into the oblivion of discomfort. Dr. Indy said once what feels like a long time ago that the more I talked about it to myself and to others, the more I could wrap my hands around it and squeeze hard, interrupting the choke hold it has over my life.
When I tell CM about the before and my client and team interpreter about my present, I feel a quick hump-thump, a clackety beat unsure whether to race or pause. It is not a displeasing sensation.
