Trauma resides in my body. Snuggled deep in the folds of my brain, it tucks itself beneath my right should blade, gathering like poison about my vocal cords.
It bides its time–feeding silently on my energy–draining my vital resources.
Then, with the slightest aggravation–a misplaced word or an unexpected hug, bright lights, or the sounding of a car horn, it leaps from the shadows of my being–taking me hostage.
My body paralyzed, my brain a haze–my voice, a muted scream, I gape as this uninvited guest–trauma–takes over every inch of the house I call my body.
I chase along behind it–desperate to repack the trinkets it litters about. But, all the while–it frolics free–happy to be unlocked and fully expressed.
Exasperated, I demand, “You better hide!”
Trauma smiles sweetly and sighs, overturning every neatly placed aspect of my guarded existence.
Meanwhile, the outside world watches on–as I gasp for breath and mutter incoherently. All they see is me, my body, and the incomprehensible chaos unfolding.
People can’t see the trauma or the battle I’m waging with it. But they wait, anticipating an explanation–but most times, I’m too exhausted and too ashamed to form a narrative around my strange panic.
Instead, I hide away–isolate. Like an unruly toddler, I wait for the trauma to exhaust itself–and when it collapses on the kitchen floor, I scoop it up, returning it to its favorite hiding places.
I haven’t figured out how to evict trauma–imminent laws can be confusing.
So, for now, I play the role of reluctant host to a troubled, uninvited guest.
Image Credit: Mika Baumeister on Unsplash
I originally published this piece on Medium. I made minor revisions.
©Heather Maritn, 2022Recommend0 Simily SnapsPublished in