I have a cat. I like to write. I look fairly normal.
But, in reality, I get these flashes of memories that throw me back to bad times in my life. And they leave me in such a bad place, my heart feels like it’s being ripped from my body.
Fireworks go off in my mind.
I’m seeing a vision, like some psychic.
I’m stuck in amber, like an unfortunate insect.
I relive my past in a beaming narrow light like people describe they see as they are about to die.
I’m not going to bullshit you. I never bullshit you. And I’m not making excuses. I’m just trying to explain.
My PTSD has been building for a long time. It
started with 9/11. Hiding in the basement of my Catholic school church, listening to the children cry because their parents worked in the towers. Maybe even before that, when I was a littler kid living in what I fondly call a “house of hell” with a father who was violent and an overall degenerate and deviant man. Maybe it was when I was a toddler on my first round of chemo. Who the fuck knows, and who the fuck cares? Point is, it left me vulnerable.
Then came growing up, and finding men who hurt me like my dad did and made me feel unimaginable shame.
I write about it. Read my poetry. Look at my common tags. You’ll figure it out.
So here I am. Trying to be a normal person. Getting up to feed my cat at 8AM. Watching a lot of zombie television shows and feeling like a zombie.
I rather not think than address my problems because when I attempt to address my problems I get sick for days. And no, I don’t feel better after. I don’t feel better. I don’t feel better. I DON’T FEEL BETTER. It’s been years of this. So many therapists. I DO NOT FEEL BETTER. Get it?
I tried behavioral therapy. DBT. Psychotherapy. Sitting on a couch. He writes “notes” and makes diagrams. Talk therapy. Trying to be “present”. Mindfulness shit is all the rage right now. That one really gets on my nerves. Don’t get me started. Music therapy. More couch therapy. I go to church. I pray. I talk to my priest. I talk to nuns. I talk to my grandma. I don’t talk to my mother because she doesn’t understand a word that comes out of my mouth. I think I speak Martian and she speaks Portuguese or something. I’m not from Mars and she’s not Portuguese. Whatever. I do/did practically all of it.
I meditate. I use incense to chill. I take my meds on time. I cuddle my cat. I STILL DO NOT FEEL BETTER. I still do not feel better. Do you hear me? I’M NOT BETTER. And you can’t make it better.
Can I make it better? You think I want to be this way? FUCK YOU. I’m not “sabotaging myself”. I go. I give it a shot. I give different techniques not a month or two but years of work before trying something else.
I think I need to come to the realization that my past is my past to keep. It’s not yours. It’s mine. And these professionals aren’t going to unlock
my brain with a secret magical key that pops out their ass to put me back together. I can’t forget my past no matter how much I want to. I have accepted it but that doesn’t make it hurt less. It doesn’t stop my nightmares. The ones that flash before my eyes in the day, or the ones that dance in my cerebral cortex at night.
I’m not being negative. I’m being realistic. I’m not going to bullshit you. I never bullshit you. I never lie to myself either. And such is the curse of living without a thick haze of unreachable hope around my head.