When something beautiful unfolds you want to stare at it. You want to clench it in your fist so tightly it becomes a part of you, that your teeth bare down on one another in anticipation of pure ecstasy-enveloping consumption.

Sweat is a natural companion in crowds, it's as if your prefrontal cortex never fully developed and you are stuck in high school, the "other" people all stare at you and whisper. Except that they're not really, you're sweating for your own pleasure[evidently].

While walking down the sidewalk because your hearing is disappearing(apparently along with your sanity) you are in constant panic-maybe that man is high on meth[a side effect of living in the Portland metro] and is going to stab you/steal your bag/rape you/take something from you/steal your safety.

Why? Because you were consumed. You were crushed. You were eaten and beaten and left in the hopes that maybe you would die quietly and nobody would notice. Except you didn't. You survived.

Now you walk and sweat and clench and cover in the hopes that nobody will catch on to your constant state of crazy.

Your husband, he knows. He knows and that is why when you say something abrupt, socially disastrous, rude, abrasive, etc.-he just smiles and cleans up your mess with a joke and a *change of subject*. Without him surely someone would have actually tried to stab you/beat you up/take something from you/steal your safety by this point.

Mid-thought you realize that not only does saying that out loud mean you have an unhealthy dependence upon your spouse, but also that the only way you can discuss what is going on with you is in the third person.

But then again, specialists in the field of your distress say that of course would be true. So you're comforted and gather your things to walk amidst the "others" and sweat out the remainder of the day.