WiledBill
04-10-2012, 02:30 PM
EMOSHUNNED
Trust, I have never trusted anyone enough to unleash my burden such as I am now, I trust me and I know the computer will only share this if I command it to. I believe it is impossible to truly love without trust, to lay yourself bare, with no secrets, no skeletons in the closet. I believe that childhood PTSD is very difficult to understand because it is intellectualized. I have a life time of trying to think my way to understanding what haunts me, it doesn't work. My moment demands feeling to bring about awareness. This is where most of the lasting damage percolates in my darkness. It is my soul that has bled. Scarred...
You need to feel Billy, a burned, scared, little duffer who went to his mother for comfort after a horrible accident. Billy is very aware he's in trouble with the tee shirt stuck to his burned belly preventing him from standing straight; “help me mommy”! Feel Billy standing before his nurturer with tears flowing and in considerable pain. Feel Billy summoning up all his courage as mother promised not to hurt him. Feel Billy jump back from the pain as mother pulled at the shirt. Feel the agony and building terror as Billy contemplates his options, trusting his mother he courageously walks back to her because she once again promised not to hurt him. Feel Billy trembling, crying, scared beyond words standing before mother as she attempts to rip the shirt from his body. Lie...
Feel the lightning bolt of pain mixed with feeling betrayed, mother wants to hurt me. Four years old is way to young to have a fight or flight moment, but that is exactly what happened; flight was the only option and I, screaming in agony ran and hid. Alone...
Feel Billy hiding in a closet, under clothes desperately quieting his crying, pushing the pain away, feel the fear. Feel Billy deciding that he needs to remove the stuck shirt. Feel Billy biting his finger, in agony slowly trying to remove the shirt, holding in screams with every fiber freeing itself. A dangerous precedent was born in that closet, that day. Feel the horror when the closet door opens and Billy is hauled from his escape. Feel the terror, Billy knows what is coming and starts to fight back in uncontrollable fear. Feel the air draining screams as he is muscled to the floor. Pinned...
Feel Billy fighting for his life with every once of fight he has, Feel the horror of his mothers very contorted, very angry face as that is the last visible memory Billy has before the whiteout as the shirt is ripped from his body. Skinned...
Words can never equal or explain the emotional damage caused. I know that the emotional void created that day cannot be remedied with medication, prescribed or otherwise. The void cannot be filled nor fixed with words. Billy is trapped inside me and I need to find a way to communicate with him. I need to heal him or I am forever frozen in that moment and stuck with all idiosyncrasies associated with unimaginable fear and a broken primal bond. Lost...
Writing This Wrong is not going to heal me but Writing This Wrong has demanded I revisit my moment as many times necessary to find the right track. Logic and intellect have proved long, dank tunnels to frustration. I have become aware that in order to see in my darkness I must close my eyes and feel my way to freedom. This freedom I seek will be false and short lived if I cannot feel a small hand in mine. I have learned and accepted; “I am that I am”. Exodus...
Trust, I have never trusted anyone enough to unleash my burden such as I am now, I trust me and I know the computer will only share this if I command it to. I believe it is impossible to truly love without trust, to lay yourself bare, with no secrets, no skeletons in the closet. I believe that childhood PTSD is very difficult to understand because it is intellectualized. I have a life time of trying to think my way to understanding what haunts me, it doesn't work. My moment demands feeling to bring about awareness. This is where most of the lasting damage percolates in my darkness. It is my soul that has bled. Scarred...
You need to feel Billy, a burned, scared, little duffer who went to his mother for comfort after a horrible accident. Billy is very aware he's in trouble with the tee shirt stuck to his burned belly preventing him from standing straight; “help me mommy”! Feel Billy standing before his nurturer with tears flowing and in considerable pain. Feel Billy summoning up all his courage as mother promised not to hurt him. Feel Billy jump back from the pain as mother pulled at the shirt. Feel the agony and building terror as Billy contemplates his options, trusting his mother he courageously walks back to her because she once again promised not to hurt him. Feel Billy trembling, crying, scared beyond words standing before mother as she attempts to rip the shirt from his body. Lie...
Feel the lightning bolt of pain mixed with feeling betrayed, mother wants to hurt me. Four years old is way to young to have a fight or flight moment, but that is exactly what happened; flight was the only option and I, screaming in agony ran and hid. Alone...
Feel Billy hiding in a closet, under clothes desperately quieting his crying, pushing the pain away, feel the fear. Feel Billy deciding that he needs to remove the stuck shirt. Feel Billy biting his finger, in agony slowly trying to remove the shirt, holding in screams with every fiber freeing itself. A dangerous precedent was born in that closet, that day. Feel the horror when the closet door opens and Billy is hauled from his escape. Feel the terror, Billy knows what is coming and starts to fight back in uncontrollable fear. Feel the air draining screams as he is muscled to the floor. Pinned...
Feel Billy fighting for his life with every once of fight he has, Feel the horror of his mothers very contorted, very angry face as that is the last visible memory Billy has before the whiteout as the shirt is ripped from his body. Skinned...
Words can never equal or explain the emotional damage caused. I know that the emotional void created that day cannot be remedied with medication, prescribed or otherwise. The void cannot be filled nor fixed with words. Billy is trapped inside me and I need to find a way to communicate with him. I need to heal him or I am forever frozen in that moment and stuck with all idiosyncrasies associated with unimaginable fear and a broken primal bond. Lost...
Writing This Wrong is not going to heal me but Writing This Wrong has demanded I revisit my moment as many times necessary to find the right track. Logic and intellect have proved long, dank tunnels to frustration. I have become aware that in order to see in my darkness I must close my eyes and feel my way to freedom. This freedom I seek will be false and short lived if I cannot feel a small hand in mine. I have learned and accepted; “I am that I am”. Exodus...