I knew we were over
the day we started
Because
Sweetheart,
you couldn't adapt to the reality
that there are definitely degrees of trauma
and you are standing in a puddle.
You think your pain is the same as mine?
That's cute.
You think you're ready for the deep end
because you got teased a little
and you kink a little
fine--that may be the deep end for some
but, sweetheart, I'm the mother fucking rocky coast of Maine
with waves that'll tear you under and beat you against cliffs
and cut you with barnacles
and sting you with jellyfish
bash your brains out and drag you under
your body will never be found and if
somehow you manage to survive the initial undercurrent
if you don't drown in the first few minutes
the hypothermia will get you
and I'm just the coast.
The girl behind me? My sister--
thrown down the stairs by her father
by the neck
raped by her brother
she stretched her body out as a sacrifice
a diversion to shield
her mother and sister and brother
take me instead
beat me instead
rape me instead
she's the fucking Atlantic,
deep, astounding, unknowable, full of
organisms we have never ever laid eyes upon
and spirits
and ghosts that reach up from the dark to claim your soul
another one dreams of her uncle's body
forcing into hers every night of her childhood
and her mother slapping her
and calling her a liar
and forcing her to go back
so she ran away and lived out of her car
she still wakes up screaming
every night,
her lover
tells her she's safe, it's over, she's alright--
sweet lies we choose to believe
to keep ourselves calm
to mitigate the paralyzing sensation of powerlessness
(how can you know you're safe in the
sulfur saturated dark
under metric tons of Pacific
when you can't breathe)
as our nightmares rip us under
wave after wave
you can't negotiate with the ocean
can't fight it
don't know if the air is up
or down or back or front or right or left
and it never changes--
it's always just the same water
the same ocean
thrashing you around, cycle after cycle
sometimes it lets you take a breath
and you think maybe you've escaped
maybe you've gotten better
or mastered your demons
but the triggers and the trauma are always there
the next battery of assault crests over you
because the waves never stop coming
and our trauma is a different level
than...
the woman behind her? skin spotted
and loose like leather chicken skin
is the Mariana Trench
her story stretches to Auschwitz
another's took root in Manzanar
a third from the Agent Orange fields of Vietnam
and their offspring from the rooftops of Iraq
Rawanda, Syria, Boca Raton
Afghanistan
Sudan
I cannot presume to understand
the horror of those survivors
(I do not have the audacity
to tell them what they need to do
they can do whatever the fuck they want
or need to make it
I am wise enough, self-aware enough
to know I have no authority there)
I have no point of reference
but you?
You think you can fix me, love me, match me
get to know me
support me?
Girl, you are out of your depth
with your
take a minute to enjoy yourself
recharge
relax
love yourself platitudes
there are different levels of trauma
You got cocky, with all the Fb likes
thinking you knew anything
when you don't.
Your therapy is child's play.
Your level of introspection
and self-awareness is basic
demonstrated by the fact that
you think the fact that our trauma
is worse than yours somehow disenfranchises you
We're not saying your pain doesn't exist (it does)
or that it wasn't life altering (it is) or
that you weren't victimized (you were)
or that your 10/10 isn't a 10/10 for you (it is)
we're just saying there are definitely
different levels of pain
and that the scale is scalable and--
bitter laugh
--sweetheart, what would make you think
anyone competes
for the gold medal in trauma
This is not a humble brag
this is hot tears
steeping the truth--
there is real evil out there
that cannot be defeated,
there are wounds that no medicine can heal
I wish there was therapy for people like me.
But people like me, we're too fucking smart
to waste our time with people who can't understand
We've therapized ourselves--
and we know, there are some cases that you just--
you have to be realistic with your treatment plan,
and that means facing reality
and you're not being realistic.
Because for some there is only a dream of rest,
reprieve--
which is not the same as homeostasis
or health or peace--
and our hope of rest does not rest in the vain hope
that somehow, we'll unearth something
talking to someone with an MD or PsychD
that we haven't already unearthed a million times over
working the flint of our past,
the glass of our trauma into our fingertips
cutting ourselves
on our own damage
poring over the serrated edges
trying to heal, trying to understand--
trying to help you understand--
trying to beat the acceptance into ourselves--
cognitive behavioral therapy is a recipe for disaster.
Therapy teaches you how to think
we don't need to think
we need to stop thinking
we crave
blissful blank silence
so our hearts can stop feeling like exploding
and our hands can stop shaking
You think therapy is a panacea
because you are in the little leagues
playing with a whiffle ball
we are veterans--
we already know how to examine,
differential diagnosis in a state of shock
our training ground was war
we know how to self assess while twisting
the windlass,
pushing past the pain
to find the source of the bleed
slicing into ourselves, high enough to find
the pulsing artery and pinch it off
knowing that the search might cause more trauma
than it solves
we've sacrificed limbs to save the core
we do not need reopening
Retraumatizing ourselves is counterproductive--
we don't need to discover our hidden monsters
they aren't hidden for us
their makeshift cages are splattered with
brown, oxidized fingerprints
we tore off our own fingerpads
quarter size chunks from our palms from
hauling raw timber
ripped off our nails
scavenging for nails from the wreckage
that we could hammer with rubble
of the dreams of what our lives could have been
instead of this
crushing bottles
to mix with cement slathered
along the walled perimeter--a poor man's defense
bracing the hinges
desperately shoving the chair under the doorknob
barricading the thing we can never kill
the thing that paces on the other side
we watch the shadows in the slit
underneath the door
growling, scratching, making the door shudder
with the force of its body
we slide to the floor with our knuckles wrapped
in crusted cloth scraps
not sleeping
(we never sleep)
just to rest our throbbing bodies
existing in this perpetual state of exhaustion
we just learned to live with
until we're so fucking tired we don't
even know we've closed our eyes
we don't even care
the monster can eat us
it is what it is
We are a different breed
Therapy doesn't help people like us--
examining our damage doesn't improve us
It just makes living more painful
You're cute thinking that there's therapy
for people like me
people like my sister
and the girl behind her
with broken hearts
and broken souls
spines knit together with scar tissue
woven from desperation
that all humans who have been to the brink
recognize--it's the fabric made from people
who can barely be called people
and I am the least damaged of them--
It's why I keep going back
again and again and again
because I still have legs to walk
and a back to carry
and arms to thread under theirs
my shoulders can still support
I am coming back for you, I say to those
I leave behind
Hold on.
I know the way
I've been here before
because you can't search and rescue
if you've never clawed your way up the sheer face,
never swam into the silt obscured maze
I am coming back for you
Just stay alive
I will always go back
Those are my people
You do not understand us
(and I hope you never
have the privilege of understanding us)
so let me explain this to you one more time:
There is no therapy for us
There is no peace for us
There is no fixing it for us
There is just
treading endlessly
in an ocean with no horizon.
