Spinning in Place

My soul was kidnapped

Age three and a half

Snatched through my mouth

While I slumbered

On my aching back

꩜𖦹꩜𖦹꩜𖦹꩜𖦹

Like a shattered mother

Torn in half

My existential path

Lit only in the presence of

Ocular lamps

꩜𖦹꩜𖦹꩜𖦹꩜𖦹

I wander the endless moors

Of rage and frustration

Wondering if I

Even exist for the rescuing

Unable to discern

What is forward and

What is back

꩜𖦹꩜𖦹꩜𖦹꩜𖦹

Can I bear the endless

Weight of not-knowing?

It isn’t the pain

The potential for physical death

It’s the fog

Interlaced between me and myself

Holding me back

From progressing

Keeping me locked in a

Room with no

Walls or ceiling

꩜𖦹꩜𖦹꩜𖦹꩜𖦹

Insubstantial crowds arrive to observe

The woman stuck running an invisible curve

Applause casts a devastating rumble

Breaking up clouds

Destroying my only

Hovering layer of shelter

A distraught sky pins me

Under layers of acidic rubble

Unseen but all crushing

I burn in my silently witnessed struggle

꩜𖦹꩜𖦹꩜𖦹꩜𖦹

The end has always lain

Just around the corner

So I lay on my side

Spinning frantic circles

On the creator’s pointed finger

Nothing more than a dreidle

Skipping in time

K.B. Silver

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I finally managed to access doctors to treat my PTSD and memory loss properly, the fact arose that I didn’t get to develop enough personality for doctors to help me recover; there was nothing before the abuse. It is a disturbing thing to have to come to terms with. I'm not recovering the me they took away; that person wasn't even obliterated, they never existed at all. I have to build a whole new me from scratch. I am not okay with it. Who would be? But like most other things, I have no choice but to accept it. I must carry on learning who and what I am. The re-creation process is long and painful, but not impossible.

I was working on this for the don't turn around challenge, but since June is PTSD awareness month, I thought I would share it with Mikeydred's June challenge as well.