The trauma never really leaves with PTSD. It contradicts its name, the thing that makes it real. The things that you can’t see, understand or feel are what hinder me from healing.
They just solidify my doubt, in myself, my thoughts and intuition. I’m caught up in a mess of retrocognition, only to find out it’s not a past life, but depression and repression. And when the tensions rise and the trauma’s at the surface, the discussion tends to stop and erasing is catharsis. I’m just too nervous to even think about, to talk about the damage. Even when it’s someone’s job to mitigate the backlash.
I’m bound to the idea that this thing is me and I’m a burden. I’ve grown accustomed to the fact that I’ll always be hurting.
This thing is not me, this thing called PTSD. The way it gets its power is by preaching its name.
This thing is not me, this doesn’t make me crazy. Each day and every hour, this thing leeches on shame.
It preys on me the more I pray that it goes away.
The Writer's Corner 