Walking Triggered
A Poetry Collection Describing a PTSD Experience
Paralysis
They say what doesn't kill you,
makes you stronger.
I would like to revise that;
what doesn't kill you,
might gradually kill you.
*
As the list of things that didn’t kill us,
but entrapped us in internal peril,
ever-expands the older we grow,
we begin to believe
that we are alone.
*
The visceral tearing,
of the heart.
The crushing terror,
of a threat that is no longer present.
The intrinsic self-doubt,
encapsulated in the essence of who we are.
The inherent self-deprecation,
of which we certainly do not deserve.
The immediate mistrust,
with any notion of newness.
The frantic urgency,
with which things must be accomplished.
*
Whatever abstract,
indescribable ache
that you feel inhabits
your thoughts, emotions, and actions,
is reality for you.
*
How terrifying,
as you watch from above;
as it grows stronger and more fierce;
as it takes hold and parasitically
feeds on your soul.
***
Fast Lane
Silence
is not
the enemy.
Rather,
‘tis the drumbeat
pounding
in the chest.
The cars
racing around
the track
of the mind.
*
The invention
of hazards
that we veer
so wildly
off course
to avoid.
The fated
accidents
of the present
colliding with
the re-enactment
of a story within
our memory.
*
Silence
is merely
a reminder
of the detours
held in
physical form
that transcend
time and space
urging us
to process
the hurt
that blinded
the eyes
of an
Immature
body.
*
The reactive
tools
that once
graced
our histories
are now
a larger
calamity
in the frame
of the
motion picture
called life
that is stuck
on repeat.
*
This is
the racket
we are
conditioned
to hear
when the
sirens
are winding
down.
*
Silence,
is not
the enemy.
‘Tis the mirror
that holds
the path
through the fear
if only
we can stomach
to listen
to the screams.
***
Nightly Shadows
Slipping through
space and time
down a well
in the darkness
with no end in sight
*
Frantically grasping
while being consumed
by the inky abyss
for anything useful
to cease the descent
*
Stealing your power,
the illusion of gravity
pulls you deeper
into the bubbling
fear of reality
*
Falling to pieces
silently screaming
painfully aware
as you are
awakening
*
Jolting from stillness
a hand reaches in
to whisper a secret
in your ear
that inevitably wins
*
So urgently fumbling
you decide to show
a differing well
from the one that you hold
carefully conditioned
for nightly shadows
***
Arrhythmia
A twinge
A pounding
A dull or sharp ache
A tension rising
To push you
To keep you awake
*
A clenched jaw
A kick in the chest
A gasp for air
A strength test
To cause pain
To keep you scared
*
A similar feeling
A separate place
A recurring nightmare
A never-ending chase
To remind you
To keep you there
*
A trigger
A dissociation
A way to feel
An overwhelming emotion
To break you
To help you conceal
***
Flashback
It’s a snag in time
that tugs the line.
A pull that shows
its strength,
as you stumble
inside of your mind.
*
It’s a trip
you’d rather not take,
down the spiraling staircase,
exposing your anguish
as you try
not to slip.
*
A burbling container
overflowing
with slime.
You struggle
to seal it and return
to your timeline.
*
A wet heavy blanket
that blurs your sight.
Precious moments
are stolen
and quickly
replaced by fright.
*
You don’t know
when it’s coming,
that sudden attack.
You’re only aware
that it’s taking you
and you may never
find the way back.
***
Yesterday
I keep envisioning my car sliding off the road and rolling end over end.
I imagine what the pain would feel like – with my lungs depleted of oxygen.
I wonder if it would bring relief to feel the wetness of blood dripping down my face as I fade.
*
I’m not ok.
Strangely,
I find comfort in feeling this way.
Like returning after an action packed vacation.
The whirlwind swirls around me to fly me home.
*
I am not inspired.
I am not numb.
I am hurt.
I am beaten.
Cemented.
*
It feels good to acknowledge the pain my life has brought me.
As if it reveals a deeper layer of identity.
Amidst the pain and fear,
I remain the same person who I thought I have always been.
*
Remembering helped me survive.
It is the logic that kept me sane.
It is the confusion that reminded me of my truth.
The difference between where I was and where I belong.
The reward is also the punishment.
Petrified in a holding cell among timeline ghosts.
*
I am sick.
Internally,
I violently regurgitate all of the anger directed toward me.
Constantly purging a remix of what has become my haunting.
*
My brain feels dumber.
My soul feels dimmer.
My spirit, heavier.
*
I struggle to lift my feet to shuffle through the day.
I am greeted by a racing pulse.
Tightly clenched muscles.
A supernatural awareness.
Simultaneously,
it drains my energy and keeps me awake.
*
I am not sure if it will ever end.
This cycling pattern of terror, self-doubt and hatred.
I need to slow down the pace.
*
“Lean into the pain,” they say.
Unaware that the underlying roots never seem to cease.
I’ve leaned so far,
I don’t know if I will ever stand straight again.
*
Permanently positioned,
my head is submerged in water filled with memories.
My feet dangling on the surface of the present.
I have no choice.
I breathe the water deeply and choke on words of scorn.
In disbelief, I feel razor sharp edges slicing through organs and tissue.
*
Repeatedly,
I gasp for air.
The solitary relief I feel comes from surrendering to the sting of internal wounds.
*
Who I see today is certainly a product of careful conditioning.
No one will ever know the torture endured to mold me into who I am.
It was hard to fight against what I was told.
Now it is even more difficult to recognize the person in the mirror.
I wonder what is real.
*
The way I breathe.
The way I put on clothes.
The urgency I feel to hurry through tasks.
The panic not to make a mistake in the process.
The anxious surveillance of the room for signs of anger.
The nightly terror fueled battle to keep my eyes open as the sleep aid takes hold.
*
I shake my head to release the instructions I have been given.
Hoping to silence the dehumanizing words that resound in my head..
The feathers of ferocity cling to the brain as if it were made from tar.
*
Fossilized,
no amount of scrubbing can release the entanglement.
They have become embedded in every move I make.
Every breath I take.
And every thought that aches.
*
No matter how understanding you are,
I can never utter the words to truly convey,
these mental details when you ask if I’m ok.
***
While I hope that no one has to experience what is portrayed in my work. However, I have published this here so that if you do, you know are not alone.
I sincerely appreciate you taking your time to read my work. Another collection of poetry with a more hopeful theme as a response to this one is on its way! Thank you for your support, "hearts", and tips when you feel called to leave one. You're all magnificent! 🙏🏼💛
About the Creator
Kat Sung (they/them)
The human experience through my personal lens.
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