first

the house of 'they' says writing out thoughts and feelings is therapeutic. i'm not exactly sure where i stand on that belief, but i figure at this point, it cant exactly hurt.

i've been doing some research on the whole ptsd front. and while i know in order to heal some of the fragments inside of me, i need to speak about the traumas that effect me the most, listening ears are few and far between to be honest. in fact, if i'm being completely honest, the idea of baring the innards of my soul, ties my stomach into figurative knots, thereby making me slightly squeamish and completely uneasy.

everyone has their skeletons and their demons i suppose, making your lips form the words, turning the unfathomable into a tangible reality on the other hand, isn't a simple conversation of 'hey, how are you.' it takes time to build a relationship with another human being where one reaches such a level of comfort to slowly strip away the walls they've built around themselves. protecting themselves for so incredibly long.

talking to strangers, hell, paying strangers a fee, so they can nod and pretend they're experienced enough to dole out cliched advice is akin to sitting on a fire ant hill, while they careen up your legs, thighs, taking bites out of your flesh, unable to scream with the unending agony of it all. as the strangers drone on with their diatribes of 'how does that make you feel' and so on and so forth, never really giving you any sense of resolution to the matter, leaving one feeling dejected, hollow, empty, clutching a wad of used tissue in a white knuckled fist, fumbling for ones keys as you wrack the spinning emotional turmoiled wires in your reeling brain berating yourself for walking thru those doors in the first place.

and so it goes.

and so i find myself here. without the prying eyes and pitying looks or even sighs of those around me. where i can take my time, to formulate each punch of every key. when i think about it, i should have done this long ago, however, i don't think i was ready to dig deep enough, to really search down within myself to pull, no wrench, drag up, the painful, traumatic, harrowing bits and pieces i've shoved, stuffed so far down deep inside myself, sometimes i wonder if they're still even there. yet then a moment happens. a song on the radio. a laugh. a fragment in a wayward conversation. and my body involuntarily tenses. i can feel my heart rate pound thru my chest as it crescendos to a point where i cant even catch my breath. my chest constricts. my stomach tightens. i cringe. i flinch. my hands close into tiny ineffectual fists of rage laced with a fear that should have long since floated away on a summer's breeze, but still, it's there. hidden within the recesses...of me.

and so it goes.