May 31st 2018

I go cold. I didn’t think I’d have to return to these memories. They’ve been haunting me for years, breathing down my neck. Felt like running on treadmill, trying to get away but not getting rid of it. And now it got triggered by watching a trauma survivor put words to her experience and woosh. Tears welling up. I rarely cry. I’m so emotionally disconnected from myself. When I do it’s always sudden.

The flashback of being robbed of self-determination. Being put through physical and mental torture. Torture. Cries and pleading falling on deaf ears. Mum blocking my dad’s attempts at intervening. Eventually he zones out and mutes it. It becomes a part of life. The worst thing is… when your trauma is so over the top that you’ve never come across anyone speaking of it and you lack the outlet and ability to frame the experiences. Every time I think about it, I turn away because it’s so much. So dense. I’ve been going to therapy for 2 years and I still haven’t gone into it except for a few times broaching it. I guess I wasn’t ready until now. It’s times like this I turn on myself. Become frustrated and angry with myself for not being able to understand it or conceptualize it. I feel like a prisoner to my past. What I hate most about these memories, these clusters that ran for a good ten years at the very least, is that suicide is always around the corner. That’s another reason why I had to dissociate and disconnect. I wasn’t capable of digesting and processing it all and that’d cause my psyche to overload and crash. Suicide then was just a power button on a computer that’s completely froze and the mouse isn’t working so you’re like fuck this.

Talking or writing about it conjures the worst feelings of helplessness and hopelessness in me. It feels like trying to empty the ocean with a spoon. A tea spoon.

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