Daydreaming isn’t freedom, I know

It’s easy to erase the existence of trauma when its presence wasn’t physical. It’s tempting to rip out the pages where it’s written, but then how do I explain the scars? The brain fog, the dissociation, the suicidal ideation, the social anxiety, the chronic isolation? Do I leave that open for interpretation? It’s difficult when you don’t have anyone to relate to. When every call for motivation seems to negate you. When there isn’t even a word for what nearly killed you. So you’re left to research and try to ferret out the truth ; which part is trauma and which part is my reaction and which part is what I’ve internalized from others projections and which part is the physical effect of the trauma on my body? I don’t know. I’ve spent years becoming everything I needed because when I needed people the most I discovered a chasm that separated me from them. A chasm I had tried to superficially cover by erasing my sensitivity and intuition. I tried to force belonging. Then came trauma, swallowed me whole like a sinkhole. Down to the underground, kept hostage like Persephone. Aint no fun. But I made it. Somehow.

I only lay down to sleep when my body has been overtaken with fatigue because whenever I slow down, the non-verbal horror rushes in from all corners and submerges me in flashbacks; a quick secession of still images out of sequence. Ordered by emotional vividity.

I feel like a 4 year old trapped in the body of a 28 year old. I’m drowning and I don’t know what you do when you’re drowning, but all I know is I want this frantic panic gone. Kicking and screaming, energy scattered in every direction looking for distraction. Dissociation doesn’t work anymore. My psychologist says it’s a huge step forward. But if dissociation was like sleeping, I have insomnia. I can’t escape anymore.

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