She needs answers. Questions fill her head; she barely sleeps. Pleasant dreams are interupted by tragic nightmares. Days are merely survived and not completely lived. Her body is now tense from the constant weight of her questions.
She's unsure of how to bring her questions up. Asking them would make them real; it would mean admitting she has no answer. She loathes the absence of answers. The vacancy of answers destroyed her life before; she believes she has a reason to depend so deeply on answers. She would never admit it, but she's also afraid. She feels her fear; it's buried within her now. It's a part of her. She's afraid of the answers, afraid to bring her questions of the past up.
She knows asking will benefit her, however, so she struggles against herself. The words are reluctant to come, but eventually she is triumphant over her tongue. The questions become real, tangible. She barely breathes while waiting for her precious answers. They begin with a shaky laugh and a simple, "Baby, I wish you wouldn't dig up the past." The answers are concluded after a long discussion and staining, clear tears.
Her questions aren't completely satisfied by the answers. She doubts the questions will ever vanish. However, the answers will have to be sufficent. That night, her body isn't quite so tense, and the nightmares don't come.