I’ve been reading Pete Walker’s- C-PTSD from Surviving to Thriving, and some of his phrases really hit me. It clicked with me so hard, that I had a lucid dream about it.
As a surviver I try to find new meaning in my life, to listen to my heart more, and care less about others. I slowly un-learn my adaptations, and try not to be on the edge that often. It’s a process, really. Slow paces up the mountain, sometimes sliding back down. Patience. I tell myself, after all It’s been more than two decades of abuse, that can’t go away that easily. Continue reading “C-PTSD progress”
The last three months were a challenge to me. And it doesn’t look like it’ll stop soon.
Old wounds ripped up, old pain butted its head and I tried my best to welcome it like an old, long lost friend… It’s an understatement, if I’d say that it’s easy.
I had some years in mindful and buddhist training; so I observe. I learn, about me, my situation, my hidden puppet strings, the booby traps I set for myself, and how others are capable of manipulating me.
My past isn’t pretty. I’ll leave it at that. But I’ll never move forward, if I back down.
My psychological strength isn’t what it used to be too, I guess there aren’t any reserves left. I jump at the smallest, unexpected noise. I cry at the news (which is very unusual for me- been called “Iceberg” before) and stopped watching TV and read the newspapers. I do the same with pictures of disasters, personal and global… My emotions and feelings overwhelm me, and I seize to function. Continue reading “PTSD, or meeting a long-lost friend”
Money is one sinister god I used to pray to
Me, the kid with the broken heart and faulty hue
Struck by the currency of freedom and power,
It’s not my conscience, but my hands I scour Continue reading “Money and Media”
Why is it, that suddenly everything starts to gravitate towards the edge?
Those jagged edges of the you-shaped hole chew away my reality.
I let my fingers, thoughts and heart brush over it. Just to be sure, it is there. I’m not imagining it. Not imagining you.
Sharp. I cut myself remembering you. Missing you… Returning to the same spot. Hurting again.
Sometimes it’s a cracking sound, sometimes a wet ripping… Sometimes the gut twisting silence I’m forced to listen to. Continue reading “desire flashbacks”
Why are the nights brighter and less delusive, than broad daylight?
Is it because I know it’s a dream I’m observing?
Is it the lack of cause and effect?
Is it the knowledge of not being punished?
Am I innocent? Can I convince myself, that I did no harm?
Did it ever cross my mind, that I won’t stop suffering?
Will I ever give it a rest?
The only chance my heart gets to speak to me – the only truth and desires – is when I dream. And I am not listening! Not even then!
What does that tell you about me?
Did you ever ask yourself, why the good ones get the kick in the teeth? And the bad ones get that friendly clap on the shoulder?
It´s what they wish for themselves. Fate is an ancient fairy godmother, with bad hearing, and bad sight. Sensing only the subconscious wishes – I’m worthless, I’m repulsive, I want to die, I need to be punished, I don’t deserve this…
“Well, if you wish my dear. BAM!”
Your TV explodes. The car dies. You lock yourself out of your apartment. Your promotion goes to the next best guy. Your boy/girlfriend leaves you with nothing than the bad milk in the fridge. Your cat runs away…
– It stings. It does.
You don´t have to tell me! That slap on your face, leaving a burning mark for months. And you feel like a kicked dog, left outside, wet, hungry and freezing.
And there are others. Yes, others. Cheating, deceiving, blackening, badmouthing, shamelessly – effortlessly- falling up the ladder. Cashing in. Those bastards…
Look at you! You are either smiling or feeling disgusted.
His vision, from the constantly passing bars,
has grown so weary that it cannot hold
anything else. It seems to him there are
a thousand bars; and behind the bars, no world.
As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,
the movement of his powerful soft strides
is like a ritual dance around a center
in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.
Only at times, the curtain of the pupils
lifts, quietly—. An image enters in,
rushes down through the tensed, arrested muscles,
plunges into the heart and is gone.
Continue reading “the panther (by Rainer Maria Rilke) – and its claw marks on me”