Fragments of my memory play in my mind like it’s a projector. I’m here but I’m not, attempting to hold onto the present moment for dear life. Instead of reality, I see a collage. Or maybe it’s a mosaic. But it’s also a mirage. I don’t remember what happened. My brain won’t let me see even if I try really hard. I just know that I’m scared.
Memory Loss in CPTSD
If you chopped your scull open and placed moments of time inside of your brain, you’d see what I see — a division of desires, a kaleidoscope of different stages of your life, daring you to remember but disappearing like smoke as soon as you try. What was it that made me this way, anyways? I don’t know.
What I do know is that I don’t feel okay. In my body there’s this intense field of emotion that drags me under. And the truth is that I don’t feel like fighting back. I’ve been fighting a war with myself for as long as I can remember. And, god, is it ever exhausting.
The corpse that contains me wants to spare me the pain so I can just get on with my life. It wants me to pick up what’s left and keep moving. But I can’t. I’m haunted by a vision of the past, looking over my shoulder to monitor its progress.
Emotional Regulation in CPTSD
They say that emotions are stored in the body. I’ve been reduced to tears in many yoga classes, cracking open deposits from my life. But this is something else entirely. It’s as if the past is stored in my body, too. Something happens externally. A feeling erupts from inside of me, and then my world spirals out of control.
I laugh and cry at the same time, wondering if I’m crazy.
Is this what “crazy” looks like?
My hands shake. The sobs catch in my throat, encasing my lungs in concrete. I want to be exorcised, letting the evil become powerless and afraid. But I can’t control it. Instead, I hold myself in the dark, hoping that time will bring me back to the present.
If you drop the “C” in “CPTSD” and call it “PTSD,” somehow the term seems less scary. If I had PTSD, I’d just be a little messed up — slightly jostled from a single event. I wouldn’t have to admit to being rattled time and time again if there was no “C”. Maybe people wouldn’t pretend not to see my pain if it were just PTSD. Just PTSD. What an odd thing to want.
It’s a “Catch-22”
All I want is what everybody wants: to love and be loved in return. But loving is dangerous — a grenade that’s hidden by fuzzy feelings, and false friendliness. Luckily, I was built for the the loneliness. No doubt, I’ll be fine.
Hyper-vigilance in CPTSD
At the grocery store, the hair on my arms stands up when a stranger looks at me with poison in his eyes. I know something is wrong, and I dart in the opposite direction to stay out of the war path. But when I finally arrive in the automotive section, I look up and he’s behind me.
Nothing happens. But my gut says that something is wrong. I pretend to look at an O2 sensor cleaner, but my focus is on my peripheral surroundings, monitoring his every move. Eventually, he leaves, and relief washes over me.
Later that night, my mind runs in circles. I listen to the sound of footsteps in the house, certain that I know who’s walking by the sound of the gait and the enthusiasm in the steps. But it doesn’t matter, my door is locked. I’ve locked myself into an internal fortress, and I’m not intending to come out.
My brain rambles in the dark, perusing the bookshelves of my life. Every once-in-a-while I discover a simple truth that is hidden under the visible surface of my mind. I have a superpower and a disability all at once; I can see things that can’t be seen. Yet, seeing cripples me.
And you can’t unsee.
Or can you?
For More Inspiration:
