Poetry to deal with PTSD triggers

[Aurora2015]

Hi,

First time poster here. It's the eve of my birthday, I'm in lockdown, live alone and have had a week of being triggered for a multitude of reasons. Having been in therapy on and off for years, I am picking up more and more tools to help deal with the dark moments and more often than not (these days) cope well and manage triggers as opposed to acting out on them. I don't consider my writing good, have no idea where the words came from, but it feels better verbally dribbling them on a page. Can anyone relate?

HIDE

The pain is there, beneath the surface;
You blink and a crack shows;
Quick! Hide it, make a joke, Don't falter!

"You look sad" they'll say;
Laugh it off, deflect, dismiss;
Just don't let it show!

You'll go home, alone. You'll cry, you'll break;
The wound will bleed, the pain is there;
You'll sob until you're numb;
Then you'll sleep.

Morning comes.
You look in the mirror, the pain is there;
It's in your eyes, on your face and in your general demeanor;

Hide it!
Make-up, humor, anything. Don't let them see!
They won't understand. No-one does.
They never have. They never will.

You'll smile and crack a joke as you arrive at work;
"You look happy" they'll say;
You'll wink, crack another joke and get to work.

You'll go home, alone. You'll cry, you'll break;
The wound will bleed, the pain is there;
You'll sob until you're numb;
Then you'll sleep.

Finite.

[Jeshu7773]

When the Dark Brought Me Horror Upstairs.

Still Climbing!
There was a staircase once
that felt far too long and high,
too steep into the dark
for my small feet to undertake.

Each quivering step,
showering overpowering dread—

no child should have to face alone
such intensity, inescapable fear,
terror too large to understand.

So as a child I climbed,
not because I was strong,
or because I felt brave,
but because I had no choice—

though my legs felt like jelly.

And for a long time,
deep within,
I believed:

there was something
very wrong
with me being me.

Many years have passed.

The stairs never vanished,
but their meaning changed.

They appear now
in the feelings I live,
as memories of my past,
waves recalling,
coming and going—
the tides of my moods.

But the child who climbs
is no longer alone
inside those moments.

The years now meet him—
bringing the love and care
that were missed.

There is space now.

I can breathe
without being afraid
of not being heard.

There is a pause now,
ground to stand on,
instead of it being wiped
from beneath my feet.

This is relief
breaking through.

For now I know—
a quiet knowing that is real:

nothing was wrong
with me as a frightened child.

To live the indescribable
is something
to be horrified by.

So when I am overwhelmed,
it is not a command,
not a truth,
not a sentence to follow.

It does not control me.

It is a wave of recall
that rises
and falls again
without taking me with it.

The stairs remain
part of my story.

But they no longer decide
how it ends.

Not because I was flawed—
but because now, with compassion,
I can stand beside that little boy

and call him my own.