a million marathons


This morning I woke to a racing mind. An anxious mind. A mental mind.

It’s not really mental it’s just FULL. Full of trauma needing to spill.

In days like this it’s like my mind’s swapped roles. From the past few days normality of my body flipping out, and my mind being the one to generally be softening, it’s now my mind that’s running a million speeds a second.

In times like this I feel like I’ve got a million marathons beginning to be run.

Trauma marathons set off by the starting gun.

But what triggers this gun’s trigger? Who really knows.

Sometimes there’s logistics, sometimes there’s none.

But what I know is it couldn’t be further than any kind of fun.

This PTSD is a lonely old soul.

I find I shut my mouth not knowing how it could be told.

It’s easier to keep a distance rather than have it spilt,

And misunderstood and covered with the ‘crazy quilt’.

Yet it’s funny how it works –
no matter the times I’ve been understood and told
I’m not crazy, I’m not mad,
The trauma has just taken its toll
By friends or professionals or those I thought would never get this,
I still can’t quite trust,
In this state of flux
That this is the answer that will be noted.

My mind’s still racing,
A million miles a minute.

Yet when I look, there isn’t much in it.

When it’s softer, I write.
I write it all out – the flashbacks, the memories,
The reminiscence I scout.

But in times of mayhem. In times of these,
The thought of this brings me to my knees.

Not the thought I don’t know how it’s done,
But the thought of the millions and not just one.

That’s the trouble – the trouble right there.
There’s as many flashbacks for each strand of my hair.

In the space of five,
My mind raced back,
Bringing with it,
The complexities of this disorder.

In this space of five,
I was triggered by my thoughts, triggered by something, or simply remembered the following:

Ma’s violence, chasing, hitting, biting, grabbing, smacking. Our terror, our screams, our wishing it could be seen.

The overdose, the hospital, the psych ward that followed. The details I could go into would traipse on forever. And I don’t quite have the physical patience or confidence to discover the benefit of this process of sharing with you about this incident that sends me askew. But someday soon, maybe even later, I’ll begin to type it and share it with you. Because every single inch of me wants to.

I remember morocco and all its horrific glory. The grab. The terror. The attack. The physical desire of this stranger who grabbed me.

And the five minutes is up but my mind carries on. It flickers to details, to conversations, like a song that can’t be sung.

I hope one day soon I will do just that.
And be able to share in these intense moments, the journey my mind is on.

The journey this trauma is on.

As it flicks and flutters and skips out of control.

But that’s something I want to remember, and perhaps slowly am, that control is the thing to let yourself let go. It’s not always the thing that will help you grow.
Let go, and you’ll see that the healing will flow.

(I can say that like a pro but typing that is so much flippin easier than doing that!) : )

This seems to have softened and for that I am grateful. It always shifts into darkness, or into worries, or into regret, or into more darkness, but what I hope is that this state is better than the last.

And as I head out to pick apples with my feet in the grass, I hope that I can nurture the moment and the trauma will pass.

Enjoy your saturday, folks x



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