Divided

Siblings and Complex PTSD

I cannot describe
how deep
the wound goes.

When I lost my
brother – he was
only seven and
I was only three.

After that
we shared
the same house.

We fought
and shunned
one another.

Neither one aware
of the poison
that forced us apart.

Bone Deep

Single candle

We were never meant to carry
The shame that goes bone-deep
for any reason,
for every reason,
for no reason.

It is not ours to keep.

THE BINGO FACTORY

Poetry - the bingo factory - complex ptsd

So many symptoms
Laid out
All grid-like

Oh, I see

It’s a game.
I never chose to play
but I play
none-the-less.

Here’s a card
Take the markers
Fill the boxes
Make a line
Can you fill it
Can you feel it.

Every card’s a winner
Every card’s a loser.

Check off those boxes
Fill them with glowing neon
Mark it if you got it
Make it big
Make it bright
Make it loud

Listen to the caller
Your caller will holler
The symptoms

Are they yours?
Are they real?
Are you real?
Is this you?

Find one?
Mark it.
Find two?
Mark it.
Fill your card
With all your flaws.

Have no future?
There’s a tick.
Hate yourself?
There’s a tick.
Don’t know who you are?
That’s good for two.

Self-harm?
Fill a box for every scar.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Count them up.

Or bomb-like
Count them down.

Doesn’t matter.
Every card’s a winner.
Every player’s a loser.

Who’s close?
Who’s close?

Spin the wheel again.

Flashbacks?
Anxiety?
Depression?
Oh, we be rollin’ now.

Suicidal ideat-

BINGO!

Fuck me.
I win.

Complex PTSD Survivor Voices

Complex PTSD Survivor Voices vacant black and gray chair in room

A safe place for Complex PTSD survivors to write about their experiences. Our stories are as different as our journeys.

What is Complex-PTSD / Archive

Fierce Independence
by Anonymous

Fierce independence and self-reliance are survival skills. We don’t see the rage or pain behind it, we don’t hear the primal screams of an abandoned child or see the unshed tears, the shattered pieces of her soul. We see someone strong, capable, courageous, a miracle…

The world is so busy praising her survival, the miracle she is alive that they are blind to the scars, the tattered brokenness of her. They all forget how fragile she really is, maybe it is her fault, after all, she never forced them to see her, she allowed them to live in the happy oblivion of her survival miracle.

They said she was strong she sighed, shook her, kept silent while the world prattled on the praise..”No, you are, you’re so strong!! I can’t imagine living through all that…blah blah blah” Do we really think she wanted to? That it was a choice? She tried a hundred times to die… by the way she didn’t hear anything said after all that, the noise in her head just got too loud.

Everyone is so sure that she is so strong and capable, brave and resilient, such a fucking miracle how dare she shed a tear…they see strong, capable, brave…they can’t see the girl, they don’t accept her truth, if perhaps by chance a silent tear falls from her eye, she wipes it away quickly, the world ignores it, and the bullshit continues…just once perhaps if we could shut the fuck up long enough and look at her, see her, accept her, we could actually be helpful beyond platitudes that perpetuate the facade of strength, survival, and miracles, maybe just maybe we could hold her hand, offer a shoulder, or just shut up and hold space, then maybe just maybe the tears of her wounded broken shattered soul could fall and she would begin to heal…until then she must for our sake, for our comfort, for our selfishness continue to be strong, capable, courageous, a fucking miracle.

Threshold

At twenty I stood
Upon the threshold
To my life
And I thought
Well, maybe next year.

At thirty I stood
Upon the threshold
To my life
And I thought
Did I leave the stove on?

At fourty I stood
Upon the threshold
To my life
And I thought
I should stay, for Dad.

At fifty I stood
Upon the threshold
To my life
And I thought.

Raindrop

Heavy raindrops fall
Splashing on my glasses
Blinding me to all.

Michael takes away
The lenses that warp my sight
With a tender kiss.

Giving me shelter
From the chaos of my past
I cling to his strength

His oak to my ivy.
His sun to my rain.

Gabby Petito – Another Lost

Gabby Petito

The video of the stop in Moab Utah.
Fair warning – It is hard to watch.

I heard the news this morning about Gabby Petito as I checked my feeds. The confirmation of my worst fears was there, displayed on the screen.

I heard there was a video of the interaction with law enforcement in Utah. I had avoided it until now. But now I needed to see it. I thought it was necessary – though, at the time, I couldn’t put ‘why’ into words.

Watching it reminded me so much of my own past with domestic and relational violence. The images hit close to home – the reverberation shaking loose forgotten things. In those forgotten images I pieced together the ‘why’.

#metoo

I suddenly appreciated anew that I survived. That I escaped. I saw again how close I had skirted danger. I celebrated the ones I helped get out and I cried for the ones that died. And I was reminded of one gold brick put in a friend’s wall with his name on it. A figurative gold brick, but nonetheless one where we all paid a very high price.

I remembered something I had believed long ago, and I remembered how my experience changed me. So I’m going to say something no one is going to like to hear, and then I’ll tell my story.

I believe everyone needs to experience that powerlessness of being the victim of domestic violence.

I’ll soften that statement and say – ok, maybe not everyone. Maybe there are people out there who can understand that position without having lived it, but most people can’t.

I didn’t. I didn’t understand at all.

I grew up in a house that was poisoned. I won’t go into the particulars of that today, but I will describe what those years made me.

I was strong. I was stoic. I needed no one. I didn’t feel pain, not physical, not emotional, not mental. I never needed help. I was independent. I was hyperaware of everything. I knew my exits. And I knew to never admit fear or weakness because that was blood in the water.

This was me at 14, 16, 18 and on. So in those years when I heard of domestic abuse I was incredulous, even indignant. The lack of agency on the part of these women, the stuff they endured. How could they?

I didn’t understand. I couldn’t understand.

I thought ‘I would have left.’ I would have got up and walked out. I would have, I would have…

Later, as I emerged into the world from the claustrophobic circles of high school I was convinced that every person was like my family, or like the evil portrayed on television, or found in the newspapers that I made myself a promise. If anyone ever struck me out of anger I would leave. There would be no second chance. There would be no reconciliation. It would be over and I would be gone.

So, why didn’t these women leave? I would.
I still didn’t understand.
And when I made this declaration on the first date – as was my practice – I saw very few second dates. As a matter of fact – the only second dates I had were with the men who would turn into my abusers.

Funny that.

What I didn’t know at the time – although I lived it every minute of my life – was that I wanted a rescuer. I wanted someone to come in and sweep me up in a romantic embrace, promise to never abandon me, and save me from my past. I wanted to be rescued from my life so badly that to someone abusive I must have looked like a neon sign.

And when my rescuers came I couldn’t see anything other than the ‘good’ that they presented at first. I ignored warnings from friends. My father knew – but he didn’t say anything – that’s a different story. These men became my rescuers – my romantic partner, my tormentor, my abuser.

I couldn’t reconcile the two realities. I was primed to believe that something was wrong with me. I believed that somehow I earned the disdain, the silence, the taunts, the threats. After all explosive violence was the legacy of my family – so, at least there wasn’t that.

Somewhere along the way that protective cocoon that he formed around me started to smother. I was isolated. Our finances were combined, we lived together. How could I leave? I couldn’t hurt him. He didn’t mean to hurt me.

Somewhere in those years, I began to understand why women (or men) don’t ‘just leave’ an abusive relationship. There are lives – jobs, obligations, a thousand little ties that connect you to where you are physically, mentally, and emotionally.

If you sever one thread there are still the other thousand to draw you back again and again.

And make no mistake those who would abuse another become skilled in playing their victim like an instrument. They are able to draw out any emotion they wish. To them, you are part toy, part safety blanket, part mirror, part captive audience.

My abuser had a distinct pattern that he moved his victims through. I stuck around long enough that not only did I get to see all the roles he shoved his partners into, I played those roles myself. When I saw the entire tableau, I helped the women he was grooming to leave before they were caught in the pernicious cycle. And they, in turn, helped me to leave.

Let me emphasize I was never struck. I don’t know if that is because of my declaration at the beginning or if I just got out in time. I suspect the latter. But, even if I was never physically hurt, that doesn’t mean that I wasn’t wounded by the time I left.

Those years in the crazy-making, gaslighting, emotionally battering world stripped me of so much. When I finally fled I was a fraction of myself. And after you escape there is shame, and anger at yourself and them. There is the world not able to understand how you could leave someone ‘so nice’. There is a whole new landscape to navigate. And you start on your knees. Or, at least, I did.

But, I came away from those years with a new understanding, new compassion for those who live with violence. It is not something you can just drop and walk away from. You fight your way out of it. You fight to reclaim yourself. And I finally understood that leaving wasn’t the end. It was just the beginning.

Nailed in the past… a paradox

This is one of those things that when I think about my Complex-PTSD should have been obvious. How I missed it for so long really confounds me.

I often talk about the paradoxes that arise in C-PTSD. Here I have stumbled into another one. It goes something like this.

Huh. I just realized how weird it is to live with one foot nailed in the past when you can’t remember any of it.

ThinkingTooLoud

Poetry Battle: Bliss

The prompt and the week that it is attached to sometimes are not in sync. This is the situation reflected in this entry to the poetry battle. The prompt was : Bliss.

The word repels me.
Turned its back on me.
So I turn away in turn.
Sore.
Ignored
And bruised.
It denies me its presence
So I deny its existence.
I will be
Barren stone
To being a fool
Waiting
Longer
Longing
For rain
To bloom.

Poetry Battle: Transcend

This week’s Poetry Battle Friday was a challenge. I passed on my usual haiku format for something a bit more – toothy. The prompt was Transcend.

Poetry Battle : Prompt was Transcend
I am one
Split into parts
The task
To blend
To transcend
The divide,
Creating a symphony
Of kazoos and violins.
An impossible song
Drawn from the chaos
To celebrate
Being one.

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