Forensic Analysis –

“If suffering like hers had any use, she reasoned, it was not to the sufferer. The only way that an individual’s pain gained meaning was through its communication to others.”  ― Diane Wood Middlebrook, Anne Sexton: A Biography 

floweerheaad

 

I reach through the fodder of my mental plane wreck, grasping, trying to make sense of it. Like a forensic crash analyst, I picked up pieces of my shattered self and held them up to the light, turning them over and over looking for reasons of the devastation. Is it operator error? Did the machine break? Was it an act of God? Did someone fail to address issues that led to this? These questions are valid even when looking at my human psyche, and to that end I believe that all apply. I made mistakes, very big mistakes, and even if I were normal and my mind healthy, mistakes would still happen. Yes, the machine is broken, it’s totally fucking obvious to anyone who knows me for any length of time that I’m fucked up in the head, that shit ain’t right with this guy. People contributed to this trashing of my soul: abuse, neglect, rape, bullied, rejected, abandoned, violent brutal attacks on my body and mind, yep, all done by others. The sad thing’s not that these happened, ’cause shit happens to everyone, but that, like in movies when they dunk the guy underwater then before he can take a breath he is shoved underwater again, it’s the frequency of the shit that keeps hitting my fan. I’ll barely have a hold on my PTSD and I’ll be attacked violently, or someone will violate my space by stealing from me, betraying me, or whatever. It happens over and over again. What in the hell is God trying to show me? What fucking possible good can there come of my constant devastation? I’ve held on this long because I’m so concerned about taking the next breath that I can barely see beyond right now, in fact, dreams of the future are gone, if they ever were there. I only remember one dream, that of being a veterinarian. It was shot to hell very quickly as I got bullied and fucked with, even by teachers and adults. So that’s it, I was given one dream, it’s gone, so fuck me, all I have to look forward to is catching my breath the next time life pulls my head out from under the water. OK, wait, some self righteous asshole from the back says, “You carry yourself like a victim, that’s why you keep getting attacked.” Oh, fuck me, is that the answer? It’s my fault? Hell, well now I’m all better, thanks. This is not a whining rant where I want people to feel sorry for me, its mainly a way of examining the evidence and helping me toward recovery from all this shit. I don’t want advice, I just want to fucking yell at the trees and mountains ’til I’ve exhausted all my homicidal and suicidal screams, ’til I’ve cried all my tears and I can’t cry anymore, scream and scream until I break down and stop fighting against life. I’ve survived what would have killed most people, I’m still holding on to shreds of sanity and empathy that many would have lost by now. I’ll be OK, and perhaps somehow, I’ll find out how to piece this shit back together, but I seriously doubt it will ever fly again.
Also published in Broowaha
Also published in Opinionsofeye.com

 

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MMA – Wounds of the Mind

“Even in times of trauma, we try to maintain a sense of normality until we no longer can. That, my friends, is called surviving. Not healing. We never become whole again … we are survivors. If you are here today… you are a survivor. But those of us who have made it through hell and are still standing? We bare a different name: warriors.”
Lori Goodwin 
“What if I lose what little control I have left? I may live in a prison now, but at least I know my way around it.”
Nicole Deese, All for Anna 
My friend, deeply involved in MMA, had a twist break in his knee. He went through many months of painful rehab. Exercises that strengthened not only the knee but the surrounding muscles that supported the knee, possessed every waking hour. All he could think about was being back to normal and doing what he loved, with the same proficiency. He recovered and won several more titles in welter weight MMA. But, what happens when I have a break in my brain? When I can’t do what I used to because of an injury? If it’s not seen, I’ll have no sympathy. My healing process, as I engage life with my mental limp, should warrant the same compassion. Yeah, I appear crazy, and you can’t understand because you can’t see. What if I wore a bandage around my head? Put blood on gauze and covered one eye and bruised my face? Would you then understand mental injury? Ask my vets, my service brothers and sisters…they will tell you of injuries never seen, but agonized over. Take mental wounds seriously friends, acquaintances, and family. If my mental wounds were to be seen, you would be shocked and cry, while I try to gather my spilled insides and make sense of the exploded mess in me.

Pee – The stain never fades

 “PTSD is a whole-body tragedy, an integral human event of enormous proportions with massive repercussions.” – Susan Pease Banitt
dirtifulmind

The stain spread across her crotch and down her legs. Not sure why, being far past the age when self control is learned, but her young body seemed to respond this way. She knew what this meant, the beatings, the torture, the hell that came by the hand of adopted dads and step moms who didn’t understand why. Did they consider that maybe something’s wrong? Did they know that a babysitter used the bathroom to defile her innocence, violating her with fucked up fantasies? No, she was left to deal with the severe repercussions, searching for a remedy. The diaper she wore in public (embarrassment being the rod of chastisement her step parents thought her worthy of), locked her in stocks of shame that forever took the pee stain, and engraved that young mind with its stench. She prayed often in those days for the God that raised people from the dead, the God that made blind men see, to just do a simple thing and dry her stain. Of course, the wetness never dried until it was to late, and her young faith died after many unanswered prayers. Let this be a warning for parents everywhere, pay attention to your kids, there are reasons why.

Empty Victory – PTSD

“Often it isn’t the initiating trauma that creates seemingly insurmountable pain, but the lack of support after.”
S. Kelley Harrell, Gift of the Dreamtime – Reader’s Companion 
philwicklund
Bend beneath and swerve around
All my troubles utter one great sound
Pulling the tapestry of life apart
Never in silence until I depart
Standing firm under a heavy break
Looking over the edge, a fall to take
Final swings in battles won
Left to victories empty sun
Laying all down in a sleepless bed
Battle scars never leave my head

Empty Victory – PTSD

“Often it isn’t the initiating trauma that creates seemingly insurmountable pain, but the lack of support after.”
S. Kelley Harrell, Gift of the Dreamtime – Reader’s Companion 
philwicklund
Bend beneath and swerve around
All my troubles utter one great sound
Pulling the tapestry of life apart
Never in silence until I depart
Standing firm under a heavy break
Looking over the edge, a fall to take
Final swings in battles won
Left to victories empty sun
Laying all down in a sleepless bed
Battle scars never leave my head