PTSD

A prick to the arm as I graze it with the needle

This small reminder is what I need to keep looking up, 

Talking, smiling, walking, plugging into the reality 

That it is eight-thirty at night and not one on a Saturday

Don't close your eyes, don't let your mind wander off

These words are keeping my feet from swirling up into the chaotic nebula of my vivid subconscious 

These words are keeping me here

 

But still they come

Stupid, stupid, stupid. I let my guard down.

They sink in like a train, whizzing past as you stand too close to the platform

Beautifully cinematic, almost orchestrated

They are a sad aesthetic of the mind

The moving pictures show up in rapid-fire snapshots

I recognize the faces and know what's going to happen

My body lurches and seizes with every image that is punched out in front of me

I am succumbing to the horror

 

And then it's over.

The reality is likely that I stood utterly still for probable seconds

My eyes glazed over and my face changed ever so slightly

A shadow passes my brow, my breath is drawn quick

And now my heart pounds, my vessels expand with blood, and the recovery comes in deep gasps.

Look at your hands! Notice your feet!

I desperately cling to these exercises. My feet are on the ground. My hands are shaking, gripping. 

Good. 

◄ falter and break

huh? ►

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