My dad visiting was a nice break, though I still have some flashbacks bothering me, they let me be for the most part. I was able to enjoy my father being here. He listened when I talked, but he didn’t make it his problem. He didn’t even act as if he was at fault, or feel guilty for not knowing. I’m not sure if he did, because he never really mentioned his feelings about it, except he knew Harry was bad then, but his guess was alot worse then he thought. Harry was the one who had sex with me when I was 8. He’s also the man that moved into our house and the one that Mom left Dad with. Now that Dad has left though, my flashbacks are back full force, so I’m attempting to keep my mind off them. Unfortunately I read some of my poetry again this morning. It reenforces the fact that he made me clean myself up after. He told me it was my fault he was doing it. These were all things bothering me before my dad got here, including the fact that I screamed for help out the window and he threatened to kill my brother. All things that I would have known not to be true had I only been older. My brother found a man by the same name still living at Pennsylvania Ave. In Hillside. I fear he has a whole family and that they don’t know who he was 30 years ago. In my mind, he was not the same man that moved into our house and left with my mom, and Kenny and I. But I do know it was him with the hand cuffs. It all ties together. My Dad told me, when I asked him why he was taking it so well, that he just wants me to get over this one day and be better. He said it sounded like a horror story and he thinks that I could write a best selling novel. The fact that he is so interested in my using my creativeness to move past this makes me feel good, and proud. He wants me to use my talents to get over this terrible movie playing in my head. I am so thankful that he can do this for me. Listen and encourage me. It’s really amazing.
My mind’s eye is awake more then I.
Inside my head a whole world awaits.
I’m looking at pictures,
hearing myself yell for help.
Old movies on rewind, slowly unravel.
Giving my psyche and personality.
Urging it to talk to me.
Awaken and show me what you will.
Show me what you don’t think I am willing to see.
It shows at the most unwelcome times.
The times between awake and asleep.
Times of happiness,
the small child awakes and opens the gate. When will it be time? When can I say it’s ok? Because she isn’t always timely.
And no time is safe.
Fair is not something that works in this world
It is unkind, unfairly trapped in the room.
When she feels love, she still hesitates.
I tell her to wait.
Must be confusing to be in my head.
Sorry child, there will be a time.
There will be a place.
Some time between now, and today, she will wait.
I’ve been in a dark place with my writing, because I was missing something. I was missing the love of my mother. My mother was not cold and heartless. It was her illness that controlled her. It was the people around her that controlled her. It was the mistakes she made that controlled her and put me in harm’s way. I forgive her mistakes. I forgive the terrible person that the illness controlled. Seeing her sit beside me and telling me that I could sleep if I thought of good things, hearing her soothing voice has brought me to an understanding. Understanding that her love saved me too. She sacrificed us, so we could be free of the monster. So now I understand. With love I will see what happened and have God beside me. With love I need not fear the beast that holds me captive. Now I see how I can face this. Through my mother’s love, to guide me through, and God’s blessings to keep me safe. With you all standing by too, I will not be stuck. I will come back from this, and be in a better place for myself, and my family.
Living with PTSD most of my life has actually helped me survive some pretty crazy situations. It’s allowed me to use it to know my surroundings. To meet pretty special people on my journey through life. It has taught me to listen to my body, to feel outside and in. To be aware more then maybe others. PTSD is a built in survivor skill. Not knowing I had it made it magical. Being able to feel spirits pass through me, being able to connect to friends that are in different states only by thinking of them. Learning to listen to my body, and know that certain foods and drinks would help it stay strong. How to sooth my mind when I became anxious in situations I didn’t even understand. How to help the people around me by singing a silly song. Teaching my daughter, while learning myself a second form of communication also came from this. My creativity and spirituality had a solid hand working side by side with PTSD, making every day a gift. Hypersensitivity if a side effect, I generally know if some one is behind me, but if I didn’t you may have received a backhand (some of you actually have). Senses on high drive, I love the smell of salt in the air, the roses in June, the crispness and quiet of winter air before, during, and certainly after a snow. The attention to details.
These days aren’t so great. My body physically replays some things now when I am in distress, but this curse, it was much a blessing these years. Only making me stronger. Only making me the best I can be. Remember, we all have a child inside that will only help you see amazing things. Cherish this when the world seems to heavy. For with it every day will be a gift.
I feel like every time I get close, I get a few steps back.
This journey, this search, it is so long.
So grueling, and hard.
My mind is just so protective of these terrible things that it even control me some times.
Making me feel dizzy.
Making me feel sick.
Making it seem that it didn’t happen,
like it was only a dream.
Giving so many reasons why it happened.
Saying it had to, because my mother made a mistake.
Because of her mistake, I was tortured, I was shamed.
I feel guilty. I feel shame. I feel abandoned.
I feel the burden must stay on me.
I feel as I had to take it for our family to stay safe.
For our family to stay together.
I want to save this little girl inside me.
take away her pain,
But my mind won’t let me,
Until another time, another place.
I see this monster,
he has not his own face.
He has a face of endearment,
the face of My Uncle, the face of a friend that was family to my family.
His own face, I replaced to make him seem less scary.
I will take the masks off one of these days, and look upon him with my own eyes.
Remove the boats from the neighbor’s yards in my memory, that do not belong.
Make it not safe, so I can see the horror show that really took place.
Hiding from this monster, these monsters, that my mother did create.
The only mask that doesn’t belong, is my mother’s face.
She put on different suits in her mind, but her face remained.
It was only her eyes that changed.
Angry, empty, uncaring eyes that did not belong to Debra.
They belonged to the people what hurt her before she had grown.
I know she did not know these people found us. It was not her fault.
I cannot focus on that to see the truth.
I must unveil the Madness so I can move on
I don’t know how long my subconscious mind has been urging me to take a look. Leaving clues. Showing me that there was something lurking there in my past.
I have been going through my old journals, and through my beautifully broken words, I found this. 2002 I wrote this. It seems that there has always been something urging me to look. To see what I have been through. I don’t even know what event actually caused me to write this. But it’s here now. I share it with you all. Slowly but surely I am back to writing and it feels so good. Writing letters, blogs, short stories about my past. It feels good to be the person I was, bringing out my fear, and Triumphs to paper. To this wall. What I have survived will come to me. I left these clues thinking one day I would forget, when all along, it’s there for me to see. I commend myself for leaving a trail.
Sick and twisted memories that only I own.
From dreams festering upon my brow is if they ever happened.
Only on my own can I recall the things I never did.
In my head I wonder what another night will bring,
If I may be forced to have my own fears revealed from deep within.
Can it be the demons upon my subconscious that crawls out to torture me in my dreams?
For it was so real when you broke my trust and stared right through me.
As I blindly walked backwards fearing if I turn my head or body to run,
I would find the monster behind me.
As I crashed and you called bloody murder I ran from the womb that bore my very breath I breathe to this day.
My own blood created this distrust,
This dishonor that I cannot look into the eyes because you violated me.
If only you knew you covered it up.
My hands and soul are aching to write, and write I do. I found this quote in the last journal of poetry I kept. I stopped writing for a while because my mom had told me my poems were depressing and she was sad for me. I had writer’s block for 10 years. I went back for a look, and they are masked clues to my past. Beautifully broken painted pictures only written. I keep trying to understand how I lived every day of my life with PTSD, and yet was fine, but now, it seems I can’t a day without thinking about my past knowing that it is not a beautiful as I had made it seem. Though it still is beautiful in a way. Even when it got scary and all melted together, just an image played backwards let me see my brother pulling balloons from the fun garbage bag wrapping that Mom had left for him to find on the morning of his birthday. I don’t live there you know. I just visit, and my mind’s eye can see some beautiful things. My cat Midnight Snack curled around my head when I awoke in the morning after I had been sick so bad, it felt like there was a mountian lodged in my throat. Seeing the pink bubblegum medicine fighting the bad guys that made my ears hurt so bad. I can see good, but the bad, it creeps up. It is as vivid as the beautiful and that is hard to take. Every Artist has their moments. I guess my Awakening is now.