Monday, May 22, 2017

Post Trauma Script

Echos of the past. Every single micro moment of every single event playing out in my head like it is real all over again. Ever single feeling of shame coming to the surface.

Wait

Today I was very good at who I am. I was very impressive at being me even when being me meant an international stage for an audience of thousands at six a.m. The sun rose behind me and there was an aura and there were feelings of being angelic and there were feelings of being above it all someone.

And it was very good.

And I felt good about it. Almost immediately crushingly guilty for feeling good about it. Buried in work today, being good at all the work I do. There is no emotion there, but everyone who interacts with me describes it as "passionate, energized, excited"

Wait

There feels like nothing today and that is the hardest part, but I'm almost through it. I spent the night waking up almost every hour, my heart racing through the entire night. Each dream the same dream, fighting, chasing, losing, fighting, chasing, losing, not quite, not quite there, but

Wait

That's the thing about the way it triggers. It's all just past emotion pulled to the surface with a mirror light. The details you don't want to know. I have five years of details in one of my past lives. I have a year in another. And in another a year more. Put that all together and it becomes a little past anchor rooting you to the spot of it and you want to just circle around and around and around and...

Wait

Some days I have to remind myself that I am so far past my past. I look in the mirror and very little has changed. To my advantage. To my detriment. Sometimes I wonder if there were more changes if it might be easier to let go and move on. What I really want some days is to look in the mirror and be a different person. Some days I look in the mirror and I see the red highlights that come out in my hair and I remember a different face and a different name and a different person and her different traumas and her loss and her suffering and how strong I have been and how easy it is not to be strong and yet, and yet, and yet...

Wait

Tomorrow. I get through tomorrow, and then we find our way to being okay. From there it is a hope skip and a jump.

Writing helps.

People will help more. This weekend there will be nothing but people and we can write new stories together and this will be the best of all. In the end it's five minutes, not five years. Five unexpected minutes, but I refuse to be held hostage to it. The processing time is hard, but lingering is worse. And so, it's just a few more days. I...

Wait.





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