I had been walking around the last few days with a sensation of detachment – trying to draw myself, my emotions away, from my body. Over time (accumulated experiences) and with an acute degree of awareness, one can sense forthcoming danger and trauma, emotional or otherwise. Prior to that encounter, one feels the body in a more taut, heightened fashion. As if it were a string, tightly strung on a guitar, on the verge of snapping if tightened just a bit more.

This sensation of being ‘high-strung’ puts one at nerves end. This is particularly important preceding a situation where the fight or flight response is triggered. So, in anticipating that, I wanted to be detached from myself so to speak – the separateness of which is of course impossible. But, as I have learnt, it means that I put myself in a position where I can respond to high levels of stress and anxiety in a cool, relaxed manner; precisely because by that ‘separateness’ I am aware of my emotional responses to a situation. The significance of that is decisive in situations where the slightest betrayal of feeling, particularly of those emotions associated with fear and nervousness, can lead to one’s undoing.

I thought there were only a few things I was scared to write about. I know that what might scare me most is when I confront my own feelings and emotional world. But beyond that, I never thought I would be scared to write of the material world. Even my emotional responses to some otherwise harrowing experiences. But there are times when one must exercise restraint. You think life is so securely held, until in one sharp moment, of rash reactions, poor judgement and emotional bravado, that balance is juggled out of hand. Your whole life stares at you – you begin to contemplate possibilities you had not thought of in years, and you come to accept the feebleness of your being. I suddenly felt the urge, the necessity, to learn of a world that I did not know yet could easily be mine.

I can’t recall any other instance where I have felt genuinely terrified in a tense moment, where every single word and slight body movement held untold significance. Yet such is the nature of choosing ‘fight’ over ‘flight’.

So, I held my cool. My bluff was called. I still held my cool. It ended well but it could have been disastrous. In part, perhaps it ended well because no one in my position would probably have been foolish enough to take such a bold move, to make the bluff and act on it. Perhaps, ultimately that was my saving grace. Because who would so brazenly and willing act in a manner which would be their own unmaking? In any event, my response did not fail me. But, I wish I had paid more caution and mindfulness to forewarnings which found expression in my detachment. For even though I was absorbed in my own emotional world which responded accordingly, it would have been useful if I had been far more mindful of what was really happening, so I could act accordingly. Instead, I let myself be cornered, trapped, like an animal: I had to find my way out purely on the strength of my bluff; the strength and bravado I could project from my instincts whilst trying to mask my fear and anxiety about what would happen to me. And later, I completely gave in, not caring if I would come out of the situation or if this was to be a fatal blow. In part, I felt like a hardened criminal who’s been caught. And no longer caring about the consequences, the criminal looks on with indifference, daring the authority to act on the bluff laid out. Testing their emotional resolve and if they have the crude strength to go against the rules.

What I hate the most about the whole encounter is how I was made to feel inhuman, humiliated and completely alien. Of course, I can only speak on this matter in such a veiled way. And that is torturous. After all, it is said therapy is useful for those who’ve encounter some form of trauma. In that sense, at least for me, writing in some part is my form of therapy. I even deleted an attempt at a poem. First, it was just bad. More importantly, it was not as subversive as I had intended; it was too revealing. Paranoid to even leave behind a trace of truth, I wrote this long obscure rambling instead.

One can perhaps come to write a work of fiction someday. So at least there’s that 😊. It is also ironic because the more I think about it, I am increasingly convinced that only the novel form can do justice to some stories. In the meanwhile, this is still an unfolding story. Part of me hopes that I am never forced to confront it. Because that might very well be tragic.