What It's Really Like
Posted: 25 Jun 2019, 12:56
There is supposed to be walls,
containment, a separation.
I need medication to attain this.
A sound or smell, a scenario in a book,
something a friend shares, can trigger
a tsunami of emotion unfortunate.
It's too hard to tell a dream from
a memory, memory from fantasy,
fantasy from actuality.
Memory is stored in the limbic
system, and sometimes, the body
does things of its own accord
like tremors. It moves itself as if
detached from its host, says things
not meant to be spoken, recalls
events that seize the attention
scenes, like in a movie. There is
no way to shut the projector off,
things of a sudden buried for years.
You develop diarrhea, begin to
prespire, every muscle aches locked
in a death match with the past, you
lose your voice, vision, and hearing.
PTSD is the spider crawling over
your foot that disappears the moment
you look at it so that one can never
know if it's ok to feel the legs on
your skin or chalk it up to dementia.
A hand held over the flame feels
nothing, and then the vibrancy of
A floral arrangement causes every
nerve and fibre of your being to
become aroused. They say talking
doesn't help, but that doesn't explain
the whispers only you can hear, and
you WANT to speak with them, if
only to get to the bottom of things,
a resolution, something predictable,
and the things they tell you might
be the answers you're looking for,
or just lunacy. You can never know.
The best you can hope for is
the handful of pills you take with
A tumbler of Scotch will buy you
four hours sleep without nightmares.
containment, a separation.
I need medication to attain this.
A sound or smell, a scenario in a book,
something a friend shares, can trigger
a tsunami of emotion unfortunate.
It's too hard to tell a dream from
a memory, memory from fantasy,
fantasy from actuality.
Memory is stored in the limbic
system, and sometimes, the body
does things of its own accord
like tremors. It moves itself as if
detached from its host, says things
not meant to be spoken, recalls
events that seize the attention
scenes, like in a movie. There is
no way to shut the projector off,
things of a sudden buried for years.
You develop diarrhea, begin to
prespire, every muscle aches locked
in a death match with the past, you
lose your voice, vision, and hearing.
PTSD is the spider crawling over
your foot that disappears the moment
you look at it so that one can never
know if it's ok to feel the legs on
your skin or chalk it up to dementia.
A hand held over the flame feels
nothing, and then the vibrancy of
A floral arrangement causes every
nerve and fibre of your being to
become aroused. They say talking
doesn't help, but that doesn't explain
the whispers only you can hear, and
you WANT to speak with them, if
only to get to the bottom of things,
a resolution, something predictable,
and the things they tell you might
be the answers you're looking for,
or just lunacy. You can never know.
The best you can hope for is
the handful of pills you take with
A tumbler of Scotch will buy you
four hours sleep without nightmares.