Exiled from time

When you’ve lived in a state of perpetual dissociation, it can feel haunting to revisit silence and stillness, to say the least. It feels vacant, as if visiting a ghost town. All you are confronted by is the fact that people, families, deserted their homes in droves. The visceral fear that made me dissociate and live an emotionally and mentally vagrant life is still here, albeit in the traces and imprints it’s left behind in my being. Deep tracks where I’ve been dragged to the pits of mental hell. The worst part was not knowing whether it was a purification or a punishment.

People talk of muscle memory when someone performs a certain movement repetitively over time, until they can do it with little conscious effort. I don’t know if there’s such a thing as soul memory where you’ve trained yourself to anticipate and adapt to the unpredictability of PTSD and its triggers, but I sure have it down to a science. My life has been a mental obstacle course and a spiritual bootcamp since I was 17, without a break and without any exaggeration. The times I slumped down, refusing to keep going I quickly fell into suicidal ideation. It’s a game of the floor is lava, where the floor was suicide.

It’s surreal to tune into my mind and not be hit by a barrage of the darkest, emotionally violent noise. Just.. noise. A flurry of visceral emotions that charged at me the moment I was present in myself. Imagine being afraid of your emotions.

Imagine being so afraid of life that death is easier to bear.

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