It Comes

It comes out of nowhere.
One moment the TV is blaring with noise and garish colors.
Nonsense comes from the mouth of some gorgeous actor.
Then in comes.
With unimaginable swiftness, it comes.
The fear.
The ache that is so deep. The ache that hasn’t been felt in so long.
Before I can comprehend what has happened, my face is awash in tears.
My throat constricts, my tummy tightens, and it hurts to breathe.
But where did it come from?
Jack Harkness was making me smile and laugh with his arrogant charm.
Then I was doubled over with a pain so long forgotten.
My breaths, coming shorter and shorter.
I want to scream.
I want to wail. 
But really, I just want it to go away.
How long has it been since I sobbed? Not just cried, but sobbed and wailed and screamed in frustration?
They say catharsis is good for the soul.
They say. Hell, I say, it hurts less to cry than to not.
If I knew where the catharsis was coming from, maybe I could appreciate it.
But this. This. This is not good for the soul. This . . . this just rips open the soul to leave a gaping weeping wound.
Fear, Tell me why you are here?
Pain, Tell me why you have come to claim me once again?
I am a bottle. Filling up with pain and anger and fear and I can’t release it. I WON’T release it.
Too many would be washed away in the flood.
And so it comes. It comes in the middle of the night to claim me.
To claim when there is no one there to save me from it, it comes.
And because it comes, I have one more glass of wine and pray for sleep or distraction.
For then I sleep a hard, dreamless, painless sleep.
And when the morning light arrives, I have 15 hours till it comes for me again.

















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