📅 Forgotten Time & Lost Self

Tuesday I had an appointment with the physiotherapist / osteopath.

In my head: 7:30 PM.

But, knowing me — Queen of Double-Checking — I quickly open my calendar again. And what do I see? 8:30 PM.

Phew. Or so I thought.

During the day, Virginie and I laugh together with a wink: “Crazy, I was already twisting the time of the physio in my head again.” We laugh, because hey, humor is sometimes the best medicine for frustration.

Fast forward to that evening.

I park. Get out. And just at that moment… someone else.

Another woman also wants to enter the practice.

And BAM — there it is. That unmistakable feeling.

My heart starts racing.

My little toe twitches. (Yes, it always knows more than I do.)

Something’s off.

In this practice, only one person works in the evening: my physio.

I feel it before I see it. But I want proof.

Calendar open.

Email open.

And what does it say there, black on white?

7:30 PM.

Seriously. Are you kidding me?

My heart sinks into my shoes.

I want to disappear.

Or shake myself awake.

I could curse myself.

You really don’t want to know what’s going on in my head at that moment.

How?

How could I be so sure of what it said…

And still read it wrong?

Twice.

My eyes betrayed me.

My brain deceived me.

I apologize.

I get back in my car.

And drive home.

On the way home I send Virginie a voice message:

“Virginie… how is this possible? Why am I still having black-outs?

Why does my own mind fuck me over like this?”

At home I grab Orisha’s leash.

We head into nature.

Away.

Breathe. Out of my head.

And the tears start to flow.

Softly. But inevitably.

My brain used to be a weapon.

Razor sharp. Remembering everything down to the tiniest detail.

And now? Now I can barely read a calendar entry correctly.

I feel dumb.

Not good enough.

Fucked up.

But I know better.

I share it with Virginie —

The one and only who knows me this way too,

in my rawest, weakest, most broken moments.

The voice on the other side of my storm.

Because you don’t see this in someone.

Not on Instagram.

Not on the outside.

You don’t see the mental struggle.

The pain.

The impact of years of abuse.

The dissociation.

The chronic stress.

The sleepless nights.

The PTSD hiding behind a smile.

The overload in my system.

The survival mode that lasted so long I forgot what peace was.

Only now, alone and out of that toxic cocoon,

is the processing starting to unfold.

And it feels like falling apart.

But it’s necessary.

Being gentle.

Having understanding.

Creating structure.

Building safety.

Slowing down.

Breathing.

Remembering this is my process.

No, you don’t see it.

You only see that I’m “home.”

But behind that wall, there’s so much more.

So thank you,

Bestie, soulsister, angel in human form.

For listening.

For seeing who I really am.

For sharing both the tears and the uncontrollable laughter.

Because that is what makes the most beautiful rainbow. 🌈