You resist and resist and over time that resistance becomes natural and second nature and you forget you are resisting at all. And then, one day, you find yourself there, in that place, with all the thoughts and feelings and swirling confusion that inhabited that space. And you realise you weren't resisting because you were strong, or because it was the right thing to do, or the best thing for you.
You were resisting because you needed the space and the time, because, if out of mind and out of sight, that place may heal and sink into the depths of your memory, to lie half-remembered and half-glimpsed on some distant shore.
But it hasn't healed, it hasn't sunk, the place is as it always was, a little mellower maybe, more familiar in its jagged edges, a little more dilute in its raw potency.
It rises out of your memory, out beyond the constraints of your self-control, your self-serving misplaced self-belief, flooding you, swamping you in its myriad of detail and poignant immediacy. And you stand there paralysed, caught unawares, adrift in that place, and it is as if you had never left.
You realise you never did leave, that you carried it with you, that it surrounded you, that your resistance was a wall that contained the world you thought yourself safe in, that you hadn't locked that space away inside you at all.
You realise there aren't any easy answers, that time does not always heal, that what you believed and thought and held to is not always true, and that, despite all those clever pithy words, you still don't know what to do.