I posted a photo on my FB page about PTSD but later when I visited the page it linked back to, I erased it. There's probably valuable information on the page so I do not fault it for that. I removed the link because of the memes and quotes....and how they landed this hour of the night. In other words, they didn't do anything wrong......it's just hard right now. I'm ranting, anxious, triggered and tired.
I completely object to the idea of showing PTSD as pretty, the same way I am disgusted by people showing Lupus in a dreamy way. I assure you, when I'm in pain I don't think about purple butterflies with trailing light. When I'm up this late I don't think about anything other than running from the brain vomit produced by PTSD.
I've been up too long, and I'm mad....at everything. I can't get myself to go to bed. It's hot and sticky. My brain won't shut off. Why do I only think to take something for the anxiety when I'm far gone, like this?
I hate this world. I've thought recently of just walking away and living quietly in some place...who knows where......just some place. I'm weary, worn out and appalled by the human condition. I'm appalled by the lack of reason, the abundance of openly hating one another and purposeful harm in action and words. It's like there's blatant behavior to inflame and keep communities unsettled. From top to bottom people seem to want nothing more than to upset and destroy each other. It's hard to watch.
She's a young one with sad eyes called "With all her imperfections."
Can you love her with all her imperfections? Can you forgive her moody ways, her tendency to frown instead of smile? Can you love her shyness, her uneven horizons?
She spits out poetry like she's on a stage show before college kids smoking herbal cigarettes and talking about diversity. She'll never fit in with them because she thinks they're shallow, but she can't bring herself to stop the verse.
Her eyes have been wide shut to ambition, calling it the true path to unhappiness. Her eyes have been wide shut to the clamor of panels on the news telling her how she should feel about the newest outrage, describing it as "woke". She can't stand it. She feels too much, says too much, writes too much and excels at imperfection, but she needs you to love her. With all her imperfections, can you still love her?
Her face is the canvas of her few years of life. There's still room on her cheeks for roses, still time for the love of life to kiss her lips pink. The brow line still rises and behind sad eyes there is living hope.
Can you still love her? With all her imperfections, can you still love her?
what I require.
gentle words, soft hands, moss under my feet,
rocks to turn in my palms and run over my fingers.
water to flow and fish to fly
the purr of the cat
and a pillow that doesn't reveal my prayers.
Fish in the air
Fish wish to fly.
They spread their wings in a watery sky.
They dance and dive like sparrows,
hold heat under their wings as an eagle, and
Circle like a crow.
To their dismay, grounded they remain like a laughing, senseless ostrich.
Before girl's night with pizza and a movie, I cut out of here for a nature walk to the park. There were a few families there, separate from one another and weary of each other. There was an uneasiness I refused to be part of. I was there to touch the trees, to look at the bark, search for early moss and breathe.
I came home with walnut hulls that now hold early spring moss.
It was a long day and an even longer night with a still stagnant day to follow. Yesterday's activities with the girl's didn't go as well as I'd hoped because two of us weren't really in the best frame of mind to gather with others and be 'normal'. It ended badly, as badly as a joke. Two depressed girls and an artist walk into a bar.... ......bad.
The pizza was good.
This evening I opened the windows to trade out stale air for new.
The video is a quickly thrown together sound bite with several art pieces that fit the topic. Death of my brother as well as sexual abuse, suicidal ideation and self harm (cutting) are discussed along side art stills. Close to the end of the video one photo of a box of crayons is seen for several seconds, then the video ends. That crayon photograph marks a detailed discussion of first being abused.
Life without Crayons
No coloring books
No cousin to first touch as I held gray
to fill in a cat who chased
but never caught the mouse.
No crayons would mean no dowel rods on my three year old body because
liberties were taken.
Life without crayons would never ask if
dowel rods broke before my mind had to.
Life did change that day. She saw me differently. Whatever she didn't beat out of me that day made her violently mad until I left home.
You were a dreamer and that irritated the heck out of me.
A low tolerance for alcohol.
Handwriting large and round; I always thought it strange.
You rooted for the under dog and let everyone know.
You'd go left when all others turned right, but you never went quietly.
A soprano but otherwise not one to raise her voice.
You couldn't cook to save your life, or mine.
Eerie gusts of wind made the curtains rumble.
At will the wind blew strong enough to send the curtains flying,
but mostly it caught them and shook out a chilling sound.
Had I not been half in, half out, I would have closed the windows,
but all I did was lay awkward, looking above my head,
at blue curtains lit up by flood lights,
caught in some unearthly grip.
A grip that soon found it's fingers around my neck.
I clawed at the invisible trying to breathe,
I turned toward the window to catch the next wave to come through,
to gasp it in,
but it was never enough..
The more I struggled the more my chest compressed.
Pillows, covers, clothing were left piled where I wouldn't stumble.
When every stitch had been discarded I realized it was yesterday sitting on my chest,
And I knew, the incubus of my past had again won the night.
This is a train wreck. I'm a train wreck. I want it to stop.
Sometimes my head doesn't stop. I go from subject to subject. With each bounce I feel less in control.
I start looking for something to change that will make all the difference.
My head doesn't stop. I laugh to myself, sometimes out loud. I think I might be crazy.
I'm standing on the tracks watching a train move slow for a train. it's coming right at me, carrying dark clusters of desperation. I either can't move or don't want to. When it finally decides it's dragged out the inevitable long enough, it fills my lungs with fuel ready to burn, and wraps metal around me like a snake in a horror flick.
I don't resist.
That look in your eye and the throbbing vein tells me you're crazy and
you'll find a reason to split my back while you search for the mind you lost.
You're going to break me if it's the last thing you do,
it's all you do.
Blood runs down the streets, in the sewage system, in the pipes, the water fountains, the duck pond.
The wind has again broken my cheap umbrella, turned it inside out
leaving me exposed to red that falls with thunder claps and
warnings from the sky that it's about to get a whole lot worse.
I skip through puddles like when I was a little girl afraid of everything, risking nothing.
Cars pass by and splash blood puddles on my face.
The shock of the heat renders me motionless, only for a moment,
then I walk again
trying to shake off what the sky keeps replacing.
The forecast for tomorrow; O negative with a chance of guilt and shame,
Dowel rods, throbbing veins and a long, long time under your reign.