rage and pain and cortisol

by Janine Phillips

A lifetime of things—
that’s what she called them,things—
splattered like paint splashes
onto the blank walls of my brain.
Her heart clenched around her words
and stole her breath
as memories became reality again.
The way he grabbed her,
and whispered,
little girls like to sit on my lap.
and stank like power festering
in his unkempt body.
How his hard-on
violated her
through two layers of clothing.
That car ride
to nowhere
when all he’d offered
was a lift home after work.
Somehow they ended up
in a hotel room two towns over.
-I shoulda walked the three blocks-
But it was late
and dark
and he was her boss. And safe.
She was only 16.
He did his thing
then drove her home
and she thanked him for the ride
as she closed the door.
-What was I supposed to say?-
And then the next day
she was fired.
Another job a few years later,
some place safe.
A church rectory.
Creepy glances.
Prolonged hugs.
Another hard-on
this time in the name of the Father.
Speaking of fathers,
she has to prepare a eulogy
for the man who birthed her
then abused her.
Videoed her,
a voyeur
watching his little girl slip out of childhood
into her teen years.
Slips of slips and panties and bras
all on video.
And her mother
did
nothing.
Now it’s time to write that eulogy
and she agonizes over what to say.
Thanks for the ride, Dad.
She breathes deep to the count of four.
We talk about mindfulness, self-care,
cortisol levels, and the impact of trauma
on the body.
We skim over the emotional, verbal,
the mental abuse
she endured.
The generational trauma passed on
unintentionally to her son. . . but still.
It’s there.
Today was supposed to happen, she says, I feel better.
Session over,
I open a word document like a plastic garbage bag,
and my fingers
vomit words
of rage and pain
and cortisol.