trauma journal

thinking of letting it all fall away

the midterms, the daydreams

thinking of never leaving my room again

thinking of never eating

thinking of packing it in

failing my classes

losing my job

forgetting my passion and just

lying here staring into the wall

watching it turn a thousand colors

then blinking it back to blue.

you are cruel

you see me on my knees and you don’t bother

helping me up you see me devastated and you don’t bother

you see me and you don’t apologize you see me like this

you see it i’m not hiding it anymore you see me

you see what you’ve done and no remorse no remorse no remorse

you see me in pieces on the carpet you see me

sobbing down my arms you see me

losing it all shoving down joy coughing up excuses you see me

starving you see me hiding you see me even when i’m not there

and you don’t care you don’t care you don’t care you don’t care you don’t you don’t care you never cared you don’t love me

you don’t love me you just want me around.

i am low

to the fucking

the time it takes

to get you to look up at me

the bent knees

the asking “please”

(you never cared so it’s up to me)

the stomach ache

the empty pantry

the headache and

the screaming fights

the hushing finger

the rolling eyes

“your mother’s busy

you know she tries.”

you’re playing dumb

withholding from

whatever it is i need —

a winter coat.

a doctor’s note.

something to eat.

but you were angry

and i was bad.

you can’t be hungry

something strikes a little funny — a smell, a word, or someone that sounds a bit too much like her. phantom noises. my mother shouting my name up the stairs. a whisper in the corner.

then it’s dizzied unfocused eyes, panoramic, the world suddenly a fish bowl. people talking around me but i can’t follow the conversation anymore. tension. heart racing. throat swelling. sweating. suffocating. derealization. i’m here. i’m in the theatre, watching a movie. i’m here.

i’m me. i’m 13 — 23, i’m 23. i’m at work. i’m on the floor. people can see me. everyone can see me. pick up your face. look alive. everyone can see.

i feel bad. i feel scared. i feel sick. i feel depressed. i feel numb. the colors go dim. i want to get out. i want to go home, but not to my house. i don’t want to do this anymore. i want it to stop. i want to be in bed. i want to be alone forever. i don’t want anyone to see me. i can’t speak. i can’t think. dizzy. can’t breathe. so slow. dizzy. blurry. i don’t want to cry. everyone can see.

then it’s been two days and it’s all a blur, waking up and being too scared to get out of bed — hungry and thirsty but petrified, so you go back to sleep. sun’s setting now, delirious dreams that don’t make sense but they feel real, you’re convinced they’re real until they end. sunset. sunset. sick to your stomach. their voices in the living room. judgment. shame. so hungry. so tired. headache. so hungry. so thirsty. so sick.

i fight for days to feel normal again. sometimes it goes and goes until i wake up one day and it’s over. sometimes i feel the flashback break in broad daylight. sometimes i don’t know it’s over until it’s been over for a while.

there’s confusion when people see me like this. they’ll say they wish they could understand, that they’re here for me. they’ll hold my hand when i cry. they’ll check on me the next day. they’re good to me, but that’s all they can be.

(i never feel more lonely than when they look in my eyes and there’s no recognition. they don’t know what this feeling is. they’ll never know.)

you sit with it in your periphery, closed without a click, shut without shutting. stowed away. you know a breeze will push it open, but try not to live in the extant anticipation of that. you try. the sun’s setting out the window, the shades of the blinds striping over the doorknob. the door is not shut. dread sits patiently in your stomach, making you sick, making you hollow. you can’t hold your hand to the door all your life; you’d never get anything done. but you can’t stop looking at it. you can’t keep listening for every sound outside, just tempting fate. the door is not shut, not really. you barely have a door. you have the false promise of a door. you have a delusion. you have a door that tells you white lies so you can get some sleep at night. then when it does pop open, deep in your sleep, or half through your day, or just as you’re waking up, or so long ago that you can’t tell how long it’s been open or how much it’s let inside — when it does open,

when it does open?

it lets a little light in, and shows you the hell you’re living in. the taped up mirrors. the glued shut windows. the scrawling on the walls. the dust on the floors. the food you didn’t eat. the water you can’t touch. the stale sheets. the sharpness of the air, biting at you. the rise and fall, the day and night. the four wall hellscape. the place you’re going to die. over and over.

and even if you can get the door to close, and snuff out the scalding light, and rebuild your fantasy in the darkness — stars on the ceiling, music in the air, an ocean breeze, a warm sleep — the door is not shut. there is no click. there is no door.

(where’s the fun in that?)

sleep isn’t fun; it’s restorative. it’s so that you can have fun during the day.

(sounds like a lot of pressure)

you don’t have to have fun

(then what’s the point)

of sleep?

(of anything)

sounds like something between you and god

…

(i don’t sleep because sleep is a commitment to another day of this)

of what?

(this)

what is that

(…)

that gesture confuses me much more

(this cycle)

like a life cycle?

(like a laundry cycle)

i’m lost

(getting clean to get dirty again. same old same)

what would you like to change?

(that assumes i have a concept of anything other than monotony)

you must, or you wouldn’t be so dissatisfied

(‘so’)

what?

(feels accusatory)

i’m making an observation. i could be wrong

(you’re not, but ‘so’. the tone)

i apologize

(thank you)

so are you dissatisfied? is that a mischaracterization on my part?

(i think the part of my brain… that sounds dumb. i don’t know what i’m talking about really)

go on, i won’t judge you

(i think the part of my brain that would feel satisfied, doesn’t know how. can’t receive that chemical input)

sounds like depression

(except my whole life. can you be depressed your whole life?)

not certain. usually there’s peaks and valleys with this sort of thing

(scientific of you)

if we aren’t judging

(sorry)

thank you. so it sounds to me like-

(you already have an idea?)

this is my job

(but i haven’t told you anything)

everything you say is telling me something

(jesus)

yeah

(okay go ahead)

all right. i get the sense something happened in your childhood

(shock)

hear me out

(upon shock)

if you’ve been depressed as long as you can recall

(i should’ve sat down for this)

then i wonder about the things you can’t recall, from a young enough age. how those years may have shaped you

(you’re gonna love this one, chief)

what is it?

(i can’t remember shit)

that’s my point

(i can’t remember shit, like, until a few years ago. there’s nothing)

childhood birthdays?

(a couple of them)

vacations?

(just one)

school?

(nope)

friends?

(sort of)

books or movies?

(i watched a lot of TV)

anything stick out?

(a mermaid show. i loved a good mermaid)

how did you feel when you watched the mermaid show?

(it wasn’t called ‘the mermaid show’)

what was it called?

(i don’t know)

then why- okay. so your feelings.

(i felt happy when i watched TV. felt like i was someone else)

didn’t like to be yourself?

(didn’t like to ‘be’. just liked to watch)

and write, eventually

(yeah, and write. that’s why i started writing. it kept me from having to be)

why don’t you write as much now?

(i write poetry)

i know

(and lyrics)

i know

(what do you want from me?)

i think you know what i’m asking, and that’s why you’re acting out

(i’m not acting out. i’m twenty three)

not right now. right now, you’re timeless. ageless. floating in the white sea of your subconscious

(if i’m subconscious how am i writing this)

i didn’t say you’re subconscious, i said your subconscious. possessive

(makes it sound like i own it, or have any kind of control)

you have some control

(bullshit)

i think you’re wanting total control

(yeah)

that doesn’t occur naturally, in any scenario

(except writing)

writing, yes. so why don’t you write?

(i’m writing right now)

yeah, and why?

(because it’s what i live for)

so why don’t you write much anymore?

(i write plenty)

not anything that you consider valuable. that you consider to be usable.

(it’s pressure, maybe)

do you think?

(well, i know you have an idea. what is it?)

i’m not here to tell you your problems.

(then what are you here for?)

to walk you out.

(what?)

to support you as you find your way out

(i’m paying you too much)

you’re not paying me

(i’m paying attention)

for now

(yeah)

yeah. why don’t you write?

(i told you. pressure.)

pressure isn’t bothering you now

(this isn’t going anywhere)

it could. you could publish this

(but i won’t)

and that’s why you’re indulging it

(that’s how i can even get started. it’s not conscious. it’s subconscious.)

the big white sea

(whatever)

work with me here

(the big white sea)

you sound scared when i ask you this question

(shitless, sure)

and defensive

(am not)

and trying to be funny

(i think i’m succeeding)

subjective

(everything is)

you’re digressing

(no i’m dad)

this is charming

(so you get to be sassy?)

if that’s the tone we’re setting, sure

(fine, i’ll play. ask me the question again)

why don’t you write?

(it’s not that easy)

you’re doing it right now

(yeah but)

but what?

(i don’t know! if i knew why, i wouldn’t be here talking with you)

i’m you

(what’s your point?)

if you don’t want to be with me, you don’t want to be with yourself

(checkmate? i guess?)

you don’t like yourself

(i could’ve told you that)

sometimes you do

(rarely)

but often you don’t

(yeah)

yeah, and that makes it hard to sit in the silence and write

(maybe so)

it’s not silent right now, is it?

(no, the TV’s on)

you love a TV

(yeah. always drowned out the horror)

yeah. lean into that.

(okay, leave the TV on. easy enough. what else?)

what do you think?

(for fucks sake)

i’m supporting, not carrying. why don’t you write?

(because i dislike myself?)

yeah, but what else?

(there’s more?)

you’re still here.

(fine, uh. i dislike myself and so i judge myself harshly on my writing)

even though you objectively know you’re talented

(yeah, i think so)

you know so. and you know that no one online gives a damn, and that’s where you’re posting

(okay, yeah)

so why judge yourself?

(i could do better. i could do it right)

how?

(the descriptions. the timing)

you’re not perfect. you’re not an expert. that’s acceptable

(i know that)

you know all of this. so why can’t you accept it?

(because i don’t know. because i’m dissatisfied with myself)

you enjoy your writing once you’ve finished

(i don’t feel pride in it. not really)

you should. you’ve put in the time. you’re good.

(ish)

people tell you so, all the time

(eh)

you’re good. why do you hate that?

(because i don’t feel it. i don’t feel proud of anything i do)

why do you think that is?

(i’m too busy feeling scared)

of what?

(of none of it meaning anything. or of failing. of never getting out of here)

do you think leaving your parents’ house will make this dread go away?

(not really. i want it to, but i think i’ll still be damaged no matter where i go)

that’s the spirit

(fuck off)

no, really, why would you bother with anything if you believe that it doesn’t get better?

(i didn’t say it doesn’t get better, i said it won’t automatically change because i left)

so it gets better for some other reason?

(probably)

how?

(i become successful)

notoriously true, success bringing happiness

(shut up)

you know that’s not the answer

(i have to pretend it is until i find the real answer)

you have no ideas?

(i thought romance, for a while. now i don’t really know)

you’ve been in love before

(yeah, once)

did it bring you satisfaction?

(i think so. it’s hard to remember accurately)

that’s very grounded of you to admit

(yeah, i try not to fool myself)

(don’t fucking laugh)

i’m not, i was just… coughing

(uh-huh)

so you think love made you feel… what?

(love made me feel alive)

expand on that.

(love made me feel like i was seen. and happy. and had a reason to wake up)

loving her, or being loved by her?

(a bit of both. mainly the act of being in love. the way she felt about me stopped mattering eventually)

which is why you allowed her to mistreat you.

(don’t skip ahead)

sorry, i just know all this already

(pretend you don’t!)

so what was she like?

(beautiful. smart as anything. made sense. made me laugh. understood.)

‘made sense’?

(yeah. she talked and i felt it.)

felt what?

(i felt what she was saying. it’s like when you get in the tub and it’s the perfect temperature)

what?

(i don’t know. it’s like everyone else has a pane of glass between me and them, and with her, there was nothing. no glass. nothing lost in translation.)

so you understood each other?

(yeah, no explanations. she liked me. she loved me, in a platonic way.)

she liked what about you?

(my music, my writing. my humor. my love languages. my mind. who i was.)

who you are now.

(i’m not the same)

you’re pretty close. just improved.

(that’s kind of you)

i’m kind. which means you’re kind.

(stop sneaking compliments.)

of course.

(she did that, too. found reasons to be nice to me)

you miss her.

(everyone thinks it’s rose colored glasses. that i can’t possibly miss her still)

who’s ‘everyone’?

(my sister. my mom. me, i think.)

you think this is romanticized memory?

(i think i was a kid.)

you can be in love at 16. it’s allowed.

(it’s stupid.)

16 year olds are usually stupid.

(i think i was, too)

that’s acceptable.

(i guess)

so she made you feel satisfied. loved. understood.

(every day. even when she wasn’t around.)

interesting. how did that impact your life?

(i wrote more those years than i ever have, and ever did since, i think)

we’re not just talking about writing

(that’s what i’m here to talk about)

how did it change your life? how did you go about your day?

(i woke up happy — i remember that. i wanted to make her proud. i was excited.)

about what?

(i was excited to share myself with her)

you enjoyed sharing your art with someone who cared about you.

(of course. who wouldn’t?)

do you do that now?

(i try to. it’s hard)

how come?

(well, fanfiction is a specific audience. i wouldn’t share it with my sisters.)

fair enough. do you share it with friends?

(i don’t have close friends at the moment.)

but you share your music with others?

(with many others, yeah. it’s easier to make music right now. maybe for that reason)

maybe. maybe for several reasons.

(probably.)

you used to share lots of stories in your old fandom. how did that compare?

(i enjoyed the praise, but it felt hollow. no one knew me. i felt like an object.)

no love there.

(commodity. that’s the word)

so you miss having someone you love to share your art with

(yeah. i miss the understanding. and the affection.)

if you loved yourself, it might feel pretty similar.

(i don’t know how. i can barely like myself most days.)

maybe that’s where we start.

(maybe so)

(sorry for being such a bitch)

last time, it was at work. the smell of a coworker’s food. a childhood friend’s house, maybe. something there but just out of reach.

the time before, it was nightmares, and i couldn’t remember most of them. the distinct feeling and memory of being exposed, vulnerable, violated. dreams of my mother, of my sister, of people i even trusted — none of them memories but something sinister behind them. just barely there.

tonight it was sex, the feeling of release and a particular hand motion — the ceiling overhead, and tears springing to my eyes. not the good kind of sobbing. not the good way to cry. the warmth all over my body, the sweat, the drafty air. the shame. being small. knees in the air. horror, frozen. horror, frozen. horror.

i covered my eyes and tried to think back. tried to let the memory come. but it sits and waits, just out of fucking reach. again and again.

i’ll brute force almost anything in life — that’s how i made it this far. when you’re trapped for two decades in the iron bars of your mother’s psychological complex, you don’t know the luxury of patience. you just throw everything you can and break all your bones and force your way to freedom, and once you’ve escaped, that pattern doesn’t change. why would it? it’s what you know. this is what i know.

and i can’t white-knuckle down on this bear trap and force it to fucking open, and it’s fucking killing me. just show me the fucking memory. you have it, i know you have it in there. stop playing games with me and just show me who hurt me.

tell me what you did to me

i’m so fucking tired

of living on the run from my own brain.

that’s it.

i’m sick of the way that every time i feel joy, every time i feel peace,

some awful little thought or awful little memory sneaks in the back door

and absolutely fucks my brain up for days.

i’m tired of playing catch-up.

i’m tired of not having the energy to do the things i enjoy.

i’m tired of being too scared to trust others

i’m tired of isolating

i’m so TIRED of ptsd

i’m tired of living in racing dissociated autopilot mode OR in agonizing slow dread mode

i’m tired of nightmares

i’m tired of feeling hatred and disgust toward my abusers

i’m tired of feeling like no one understands me

i’m tired of being terrified of men

of being touched

of talking to strangers

i’m tired of random things sending me into spirals

whatever my coworker puts in the microwave, and how i can’t eat once i smell it

(because it reminds me of a childhood friend’s house and i can’t remember why)

the resentment whenever i see my parents interact with their grandchild

i’m tired of being sick to my stomach

unable to eat

putting off sleep

tired of running on fumes

tired of only being comforted by my own writing

tired of only feeling real and seen and understood by myself

tired of keeping it all to myself

tired of minimizing my own pain

tired of having no idea how to process and handle pain

if i’m lucky then i’ll never see you again

if you’re lucky then i’ll never see you again

black forest blooper reel bunk beds and stainless steel

him atop you atop me atop him

isn’t this fun? isn’t this a good game?

isn’t this how killers get their good name?

naked and cold and afraid and alone

not quite ever alone

yet forever alone

just the bone running home up the side of your hand

down your arm and your elbow your shoulder and-

puppet shows puppet shows no one around us knows

hollow tin chest and a bucket of bait

christmas tree christmas tree stage lights and you and me

singing for anything, singing for- wait-

me on my tiptoes where grass grows and lord knows

the sky and the fire the lights and the rain

the shiny black asphalt the planes in the air

the stars that aren’t usually there

there is a need, just a void in my stomach

i feel it whenever the music stops

before i could speak i could feel i could think

i remember distinctly the way my heart drops

the lamb for the slaughter the lights on the water

the voices behind me got lost in the wind

the smell of the sea and the jeans below me and the fear that somebody would know

the lump in my throat and the twinge in my hips

it’s late and i need to go home.

please stand at the door

and check all the stalls

don’t look at your phone

don’t take any calls

i can’t be alone

there’s men in the walls

there’s men in the walls

there’s men.

just after sex when the air’s coming down

i’m out of the fog but i can’t see around

exposure all over, flat chest and knock-knees

my body’s a temple for vagrants and thieves

my body’s a home for imaginary men

my body’s a playground for all of their friends

my body’s a rest stop so come lay your head

connection

connection

you stop feeling human

you need another human

connection

speak back

there are hands reaching out

people you know and love

but no,

not them

someone who doesn’t know you

someone who has no concept —

no pretense —

who doesn’t think they know you

and by way of that,

white silence the buzz of everything sitting still

waiting

you’ve got something inside you and we need to get it out

we need to extract the value and leave the husk

sit on the table

how can we make this quick

painless

there’s something inside you and it’s clawing its way out BUT

but

it will get comfortable enough to stay

nestled in the teeth of your belly

it will learn to find home inside you

and rot you from the inside

the apple and the homebody worm

stop

red light stop

open your legs

let’s find a way through this electric maze together

it’s a process of elimination

it’s barbed wire acupuncture

it’s a race against the bleeding out

we have to get it out of you because you won’t survive either way

and i don’t want this blood on my hands

i don’t want to look back on a blank page and think of what almost happened

write the story of what could have been

i won’t let this be a sheet

this will be a masterpiece

and we will paint it with whatever we can find on you

red from your lips

black from your eyes

pink from the little tongue you bite

ivory from the most sensitive side of your arm

i will not let you be wasted

a little piece here

a little piece there

open wide and let me see your teeth

open your knees and let me see the thing i paid for

stop

red light

there’s a beast inside you and i can make it mean something

i can make it matter

you don’t matter yet