me, myself, and my head
I’m inside my head and
I’m tired of the dialogues. The conversations. The diary logs. The questions. The answers. Even the revelations. The epiphanies.
It’s been three decades of them. I am shaped by them. I am worn by them. They tap into my bones and then my organs. Sometimes all at once.
They wreak havoc on the state of my soul and the dams in my eyes. They control what I am and, dare I say, who. They say when I am not anyone at all, and when I’m the only one too.
I’m exhausted. By life. By what I think it is. What I have made it. What I haven’t.
I’m beat down by these verbal assaults my mind has always had with itself and I am shattered by the blind eye of my heart and cold shoulder of my soul.
I am withered. Weathered. By both storms and by sun.
I am deceived by my thoughts although, in their moment of existence, they are innocently genuine.
I type but my hands hurt. I think but my brain bursts.
I love but my heart throbs. I pause but my pain sobs.
I’m still inside my head and
I don’t know that I’ve ever been anywhere else.
I’m still inside my head and
although it’s done so much thinking,
I’d almost forgotten I’m already dead.
#head #ptsd #trauma #heart #soul #loss #sun #storms #blank #empty #shattered #full #bones #blood #wither #weather #happy #sad #numb #dead
Small Mercies
“GET DOWN! GET DOWN!” the soldier yelled as he ran past, ducking behind a log just as the grenade went off. The rest of us popped up, guns at ready. We shuffled into the building, shouting orders at others. The adrenaline that pumped through my veins kept me going, even if my mind was a little foggy from the lack of sleep. I kicked open a door to my right, darting inside just in time to see someone leap out of the window.
“I’ve got one!” I screamed back at my team, jumping out after him. The cloaked figure was running across the rooftops of the abandoned buildings in what used to be downtown Winchester. “Stop!” I yelled, bunny-hopping over the edge of the balcony. The person didn’t even look over their shoulder at me, carefully placing his feet so he didn’t fall through the rotting roof he was currently on.
“Sergeant Jackson!” one of my men called. “Sergeant, get back! Get back!”
I ignored him, approaching my target. “Stop!” I yelled again, the wind whisking my words away.
Finally the boy looked back at me. Well, I couldn’t be sure it was a boy. Whoever it was wore a strange dis-figured mask. I nearly missed the short movement of his hand. A signal. One I knew all to well. I blanched, looking at the buildings nearby. There were maybe about ten other masked people.
“Sergeant!” I raised my hands in surrender, but flicked my fingers in a small circle to indicate I was surrounded.
“Leave, soldier,” I gruffed, not turning.
“But sergeant-” he trailed off, and I could tell he was surveying the situation.
My target stepped off the roof I stood on, pulling their hood down. The mask still covered their face, but I could now see that it was a woman. She did something with her feet. There was suddenly a faint ticking sound. That’s when I turned to one of the members of my team. “Go!”
And then the building blew up. I screamed as I was flung into the air, the sting of torn skin flooding my senses. I flipped multiple times, seeing the ground, and then the sky, and then the ground, and then back again. Finally, I stopped, facing the ground as it rushed to meet me. I threw my hands out, my face about to hit the ground-”
My eyes flew open and I shot up in bed, my breaths coming out in short gasps. A light turned on next to me, and I panicked, flinching away from the hand that reached for me. I looked at her face, my eyes going wide. “Jackson. Jackson it’s me. Breathe, babe. Breathe.” My eyes darted to hers. She signed with her hands to reinforce her words. I gulped, my body trembling, but forced myself to pace my breathing. “Dreams again?” she asked.
I nodded, pointing to the wheelchair at the far end of the room. She gently massaged my scalp for a moment before complying. She carted it to the side of the bed and slowly asked if we were going to the same spot. I didn’t sign anything, just started wheeling myself away. She padded alongside me, one hand on the chair. She wouldn’t help me until I asked for it. She’d learned to do that when the whole process started. I was always refusing help, even when my hands were so messed up I couldn’t roll myself anywhere. I felt like a baby when she had pushed me around. I felt weak. Not at all like a trained soldier. So she’d stayed beside me the whole way, a pained expression crossing her face as she saw the war inside my mind and with my body.
I pushed myself out onto our balcony, looking out over the treetops of Virginia. In the distance, I could see the city, but the only sound was the phantom shots of Winchester in my mind. Hardly anyone came out of their homes anymore, scared of what was passing through. I couldn’t blame them. We were.... they were a force to be reckoned with.
My wife stepped in front of me, crouching low and signing. I didn’t really pay attention, so I didn’t catch what she was trying to say. Knowing that, she grabbed my face between her delicate hands and turned my head so I’d look at her. “I love you,” she said slowly so I could read her lips. “I will always love you, Jackson.” She pressed a kiss to the fake skin on my forehead. Pulling away again, she stepped inside, bringing a blanket out for me. I accepted it gratefully, glancing up at her with unshed tears glazing my eyes. She was my small mercy in this world. “Stay strong,” she said, sitting in the spot when were absent leg would have taken. She leaned against me, burrowing herself into my chest. I wrapped the blanket around both of us and rested my head on hers. I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t, but I’d watch over her until the dawn broke. Until the birds sang her awake with their joyous songs.
#PTSD #sad #happy #love #fear #nightmares #mercy
Is that love in the air, or Deceit?
Is it really love?
You tore me down,
And rebuilt my walls to your liking.
Threats and curses are thrown back and forth.
You treat me terribly.
Put in front of me the life I had before just to mock and tease me.
You take away everything!
And yet,
I escaped,
But think of you as I would a lover.
As I would a friend.
Deep down, you were never one of those things.
But,
I feel like we were.
They tell me it was manipulation.
Deceit.
It doesn't feel that way.
I want to run back to you,
For some odd,
Unexplainable reason.
Is that love?
This burning feeling in my stomach?
I think you made me love you!
I hate you for it.
I want to burn these bridges,
But you're branded into my soul,
My bruised, abused skin.
So, please, tell me the truth.
Is that really love?
#Love #Deceit #Sorry #PTSD
Trust the process
Your office is fine, the music in the waiting room however could be changed beCAUSE IT MAKES ME ANXIOAAAAAAAAUS
THAT NEW AGE SPIRITUAL BULLSHIT MAKES ME THINK LESS OF MY MEntal health; please don’t take offense to that it is me trying to escape what I forgot I was talking about and I get so sleepy after all the EFFORT that goes into ALL THE TALKING MYBRAINMWANTSTODO and I am so tired of pain. I am so tired of pain. I am tired of forgetting why my face hurts. I am an embarrassment.
trust the process
I have been praying more
trust the process
No one sees me
trust the process
I am so LONELY
trust the process
If this is me now PLEASE HELP ME GET MEDICAL COVERAGE TO HAVE MY VOICEBOX REMOVED so I just can not talk ALL THE TIME
you would not be able to eat or shit properly. Worth it? Trust the process
waiting room music is different, and everything in it which remained the same is now some how... more like the essence of someone; including ‘trust the process’.
life is shitty, like each bad thing is in actual equivalencies of measurement of how we view it. One shitty thing = 1 turd & vice verse.
do your shoes stink?
is your car full of shit? your kitchen? your house? where you sleep?
is where you sleep full of shit?
add up a quick snapshot of life age birth to current things with shit on them.
Are you hostile because you are trying to do everything every one THI*NKS you should, but can’t
trust the process
my 200 to do lists are scattered everywhere I don’t know how to start because I don’t know why I am doing what I am doing or how to process steps I took for granted my whole life
trust the process
Fine, I am decluttering my shit collection
trust the process
God help me be less like me
trust the process
I don’t want to be broken anymore
trust the process
talk to me so I understand you, please. say all the things I need to hear and when I ask, answer me honestly and tell me if I am doing it right. I have to trust you now because I am on a tightrope and what’s behind me is on fire my brain is on fire.
trust the process
I am doing this all on my own now, why am I still coming here?
trust the process
I got it. I found this small bit of self
dry
dry like a shredded twine around kindling anXIOUS TO BLOW UP OR FLICKer but please everything around me had become tinder and if I spark up I may cause a fire can you help me now?
trust the process
im so tired im still so tired but I am here. I am here
trust the process
I got this list of behaviors I don’t know why I do
trust the process
I am changing
trust the process
I am NOTHING I thought I was and everything I never expected yet it is neither constant or comfortable ever
I am a good person even when I failed and I do.. A LOT
I am decent, and my faith may be different then yours but its FINE
I can have an opinion and not feel like someone either hates me or is gonna kill themselves because I am learning my words yet NONE of them seem right from my voice instead of writing
Trust the process
How long will this be?
Look at where you are, something must be happening that is ‘right’ or you would be way less.
#tbi #ptsd #PCS #therapy #fear #trusttheprocess
#selfcare #write to be #free
Sharp Feathers
sun comes, eyes open
the birds in my ribcage stir
they awake irate
confused and enraged
furious of their prison
hungry for release
no room to fly out
angry flaps batter my bones
compressing my lungs
they suffocate me
every day begins this way
a battle of wings
an urgent warning
canaries in my coalmine
signaling my death
state of mind toxic
carbon monoxide inside
suicidal gas
please cut me open
break my ribs to set them free
my avifauna
#PTSD #depression #anxiety #haiku
The Purge
-CW/TW: mentions of self-induced vomiting-
The toothbrush-
stiff, coarse bristles,
gracefully-curved plastic handle
adorned with Barbie’s perpetual smile and everlasting perfection-
sits in my tender juvenile palm
with the same crushing weight
resting upon the broad, muscular shoulders of Atlas.
Crouching, defeated
a mere crumpled heap,
upon the cold, hard floor-
my young mind
struggles to make sense
of the mess life has already become.
A handful of moments
--frantic run-away thought trains,
tornadoes and tidal waves of conflicting emotions,
desperate dead-end plans--
pass, before…
“Decision made.”
Newfound decisiveness,
renewed conviction
now on-board;
I take action,
seeking much-needed relief.
Inhale.
Exhale.
"Open wide."
Barbie’s perfect smiling face
quickly makes its way
down
down
down.
My stomach turns.
Sweet relief…
Glorious levity…
I bask in the glow.
Gazing at my vomit,
marveling at the wretchedness once trapped within
as it swirls far away through the pipes,
I notice
the most curious
feelings in my body:
my stomach, cleansed-
no longer clogged with anguish, self-loathing;
my mind, freed-
no longer obstructed with torment and secrets;
my lungs, opened-
liberated from cinder block weights of anxiety, fear.
“This is the answer.”
#poetry #personal #emotional #pain #struggle #survivor #trauma #abuse #ptsd
Whiskey Connoisseur // Hell-Fire & Molasses
I float,
lifted
out of myself;
I tingle,
freed
of physical body's bondage;
Vision goes dark,
ears falling silent,
released
from ever-swirling external clutter, stress, provocation.
Sadly, such a flawed strategy.
Numbness
empties me
of thought,
of experiences,
myself.
Numbness
blocks me
from ideas,
from emotions,
myself.
This measure, protective,
developed to
wrap me
in comfort, a cocoon of plush cotton;
swaddle me
in security and safety.
This measure, protective
also
robs identity,
strips control,
hides self from self.
Like floating
through hell-fire and molasses,
slowly trudging
through time-
unable to escape
the burning,
the smoldering,
the smoke and haze.
Despite
the cocoon's ease,
the swaddle's relief,
a realization builds within
...
As through hell-fire and molasses
I float,
pulled along by formidable force unseen,
time passes;
life all-around continues;
my own becomes history.
#poetry #personal #emotional #mentalhealth #mentalillness #dissociation #ptsd #survivor #journey
Multiplicity
This piece was written about my experience living with Dissociative Identity Disorder.
“Pick one,”
the world tells me,
lacking any true understanding
of the choices I have
or that it is snatching those from me
by uttering such a command,
fiercely shoving this square peg into its pre-approved round hole.
“Pick one,”
the world tells me,
because people like me-
who really are we-
are: “odd”
misunderstood,
“frightening” to the blissfully ignorant.
"Pick one,"
they say,
because having thirty-something names (and counting)
is far too large a burden to them;
I better keep myselves to myself,
push through alone,
lest I bring shame,
lose relationships.
However
“Embrace all,”
I say,
because all of these parts
are parts of me-
parts that I need,
parts whose concerns I heed,
parts whose loss I would greatly grieve.
“Embrace all,”
I say,
because people like me-
who really are we-
are: courageous,
resilient,
fearfully strong,
(in part) because of
the choices available,
the uniquely beautiful structure and functioning of each of our minds.
And, so,
I pick all,
not one,
forgetting “the world”,
because my first duty is to me…
all of me.
#poetry #personal #emotional #memoir #experience #life #acceptance #perspective #survivor #trauma #abuse #ptsd
Die. Rise. Repeat.
Rising
from the ashes,
from fire and brim...
...a phoenix
reawakens,
resurrects,
reconciles with the life
that caused its downfall once before.
I am
such a creature- one
taking the fire of destruction,
making a fertile ground for rebirth;
taking cold and bitter ashes,
making clemency and beauty;
taking death,
making life.
I am
created from
that which destroyed me,
stronger
than ever before.
With newfound strength,
my courage,
my tenacity,
are multiplied
exponentially.
With these expounded virtues,
these precious gifts,
I conquer the very last of
my demons,
climbing to the very top of
my mountains
in this life.
This cycle
of death
and rebirth,
of strengthening,
continues
until I reach
my place of peace
and
-at long last-
am able
to pass this gift
to another.
#poetry #personal #phoenix #growth #journey #power #empowered #survivor #trauma #ptsd
Immense Heartache // Impeccable Hygiene
Sprinting
to the bathroom:
panting;
heart pounding;
perspiration pooling
in my body's every nook and cranny.
Slamming the door,
desperately searching for a lock,
frantically building a blockade,
I am- at long last-
alone.
Tearing open
the shower curtain —
the same way
I rip and claw open
my skin
in times of desperation,
times like these —
I fumble with the knobs,
“dammit…”
Finally,
I find focus, willing the violent trembling of my hands
to S L O W . . .
At last, success;
my hand grasps
the one marked “H”,
wrenching it far as it will go —
wishing it would go
even farther.
Stumbling into the tub,
I stand there
nearly comatose,
my skin becoming
scorched,
as red as a pool of freshly shed blood;
my mind becoming
empty,
as black as the sky
in the dead of night
when you’re utterly alone.
Several moments pass
of simply scalding my skin.
I reach out for the soap —
“Yes” —
“thank God” —
loofah, doused.
I viciously scrub
(as viciously as he rubbed) —
Maybe I can peel off, remove and forget, the layers of myself that have been ruined...
Maybe I can exfoliate away the personal death and decay of awful memories and agonizing emotions… —
from head to toe.
Then, I do it again.
And, again.
I watch,
in a daze,
bubbles and suds
dead skin flakes
droplets of blood
swirling down the drain,
only to realize...
...I’m still dirty…
“Fuck.”
Stumbling out,
grabbing whatever threadbare, too-small towel is within reach,
I lie on the floor:
a heap of soiled linens.
If I can’t burn off this dirt with boiling water,
if I can’t scrub off this filth with all my might,
will I ever be clean?
#poetry #personal #emotional #pain #struggle #shame #survivor #trauma #abuse #ptsd