Jun 8, 2022
i be in my own head fighting for my life
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i be in my own head fighting for my life
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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People need to understand that for those who have gone through trauma experience things differently.
If you went through an abandonment as a child, a breakup others would get over with in months can take years to overcome.
If you went through domestic abuse, even small changes in a loved one's tone can make you anxious.
If you were belittled your whole childhood, being professionally critized at work can feel like the end of the world.
Trauma effects us for a long time after it occurs.
reblog if you're sick of movies and tv shows perpetuating the idea that PTSD is always like a hypervivid flashback and that the hypervivid flashbacks can only happen if you've been in a literal warzone
and so there you are, drawn and quartered in the square, nailed to the post, hanged and stoned. you are marred with their dirt and none of your own. you think you are pure in this state, that this makes you clean. you produced this tragedy piece, a persecution conspiracy. wearing a woven crown and the reworked scraps you stole from everyone you know. i guess guilt was too sour on its own, you learned how to swallow it. not your fault, not your fault, not your fault. it coats your throat. it is all youve ever wanted to be. you are weak and scarred and sacred and dying. how could anyone deny you this, when you write it all down so beautifully? a matyr, a sacrifice, a victim and a god. your very own jesus christ and we all say amen. not your fault.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
I’m always there for everyone else, but yet when I need someone no one is there.
as someone who just represses every trauma, eats uncomfortable feelings and pushes down every bad experience to just hustle through life pretending everything is great, I felt really called out but at the same time very seen by this.
After having numerous breakdowns over something small randomly through life and not understanding what that was all about, this really was enlightening.
Thank you, Taylor Tomlinson, for being so candid and open about mental health in your new special.
Two weeks ago, I walked into a unit that was utilized as the main COVID ICU of my hospital. Myself and many other nurses spent all of 2020 and the majority 2021 in this space. At the time, it was only lit with artificial lights, was run down with old equipment, and felt more like a cave than an ICU.
The smell of fresh paint and the brightness of the unit were in stark contrast of the heaviness I felt in my chest. This particular area of the hospital had been all but abandoned after the surges were over, and now it was being repurposed to once again house critically ill patients.
Ignoring my internal conscience’s screams of, “Don’t take another step”, I walked a bit further into the unit. I should have listened to myself; I shouldn’t have taken that last step. Something caught my gaze and I froze, effectively thrown back into a place and time I would rather keep deep in my memories. Ventilator settings written in dry-erase marker on a glass ICU door.
The scent of the fresh paint and the bright, natural light merged together with the memories of the most difficult and painful experience I have ever experienced as an ICU nurse. The faces of every patient, each Code Blue, every family FaceTime that occurred before we intubated-with the intention of saying goodbye, because they knew they would more than likely not make it-flashed before my eyes in full technicolor.
I snapped back to reality and felt angry, an anger that was so overwhelming, breathing became difficult and hot tears fell freely. I was angry about the loss of precious life, the unsuccessful resuscitations, and the misinformation that spread like wildfire, that only lead to more death. Most of all-I was angry at the ventilator settings written on glass doors for eliciting such a vehement response out of me. I was caught off-guard and completely unprepared to face the trauma that imprinted itself upon me; so I turned and left the unit for (what I thought would be) the last time. I had no intention of ever going back.
I spent that entire night thinking about what I had seen that day and my reaction to it. I finally came to an agreement with myself. I would go back in there and erase the ventilator settings, but I needed to make it a calm and healing experience. My favorite chaplain was all-too agreeable to helping me through this. The next day, I entered the unit I had promised myself I would never step foot in again.
Since it had been quite a while since they were written, the ventilator settings would not wipe off the glass easily. It was almost as if they were taunting me and making me work to erase them. Once the first glass was wiped clean, I felt a wave of grief wash over me. I was no longer angry, I was saddened. Saddened by loss. Loss of so many lives, loss of friends that left our amazing profession, and loss of our way as a society. Guided by my emotions-I erased all the writing off of each door to each room. It was cathartic to erase every trace of grief and despair that I could see. I then threw away the paper towels that held the remnants of another time, and walked out of that space feeling lighter than I thought I would.