Trauma memories

[Jeshu7773]

Trauma memories can be a real freak, at least they have been in my life. Below a poem about one of those memories to help me process the traumatic times i experienced the onset of schizophrenia in childhood. Where as a child i was told to go back to bed for i did not have to scared of the devil but i was terrified by hallucinations and the onset of the voices.i can hear in my head.

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.

[Jeshu7773]

A poem about reliving past trauma experiences.

Trauma Memories — Horror Relived

My memories are not always clear pictures.
Neither can they be always exact events
For my child is deeply buried by time,
not only me terrorised by fears.

Sometimes they are only fragments,
traumatic moments flashing
like broken film clips played too fast.

Overwhelming sensations.
Bodily feelings speaking in extremes.
Sudden fears beyond understanding.
Loneliness and grief without words.

A tightening chest.
Voices frightening.
Shadows chasing.

Suddenly the forgotten child within
is no longer remembering bad times,
but painfully reliving them.

For my trauma did not always live in words.
More often it hid beneath emotional layers,
inside overwhelming moments
I lived long ago.

Trauma stored years of terror within me,
creating a highly reactive nervous system
because of terrible things that happened to me.

Breaths held far too long.
Muscles tensed into injury.
Constant danger ruling my mind.

Forced to relive horrors from the past,
with a mind thrown into turmoil,
a heart beating wildly,
through countless sleepless nights
and terrible stored sensations,
where dying again and again
felt as if fear would never end.

Most of my memories
returned in this manner.

Never neat stories,
but storms breaking open.

Bits and pieces.
Floating images.
Lost feelings.
Terrors without explanation.

Many times I doubted myself,
for trauma often buries truth
beneath utter confusion.

Yet slowly,
with gentleness instead of force,
with truth instead of accusation,
with safety instead of panic,
with mercy instead of judgment,
with love instead of hate,

the buried child began speaking.

For the trauma memories
had not come to destroy me,
but to reveal
what had long remained hidden.

And I finally began to see:

What I called weakness
was often survival.

What I despised as madness
was more often than not
terror that had never been given a voice.

What I experienced as shame
was often unbearable pain
carried alone far too long.

Healing did not come
through winning battles against myself.

Healing came
when truth no longer demanded
that I hate
the wounded child within me.

For trauma memories
are not merely about the past.

They are about learning,
at last,
that the frightened child
never deserved abandonment
in the first place.

[Croix]

Dear Jeshu7773~

I read your introductory post and can see all you mentioned in that very sensitive, perceptive and almost forceful verse above.

I can relate at least in part as I have PTSD and your description of memories, feelings and emotions appearing, often in fragmented form, is how it is for me. I'd have not hope of expressing it so well -so thank you.

You may be interested in our Poetry Corner  which people are encouraged to see if they appreciate verse. They are all from the heart. Also a Poem on PTSD triggers made by another member 

I look forward to hearing more of your work

You may consider talking more directly about the things that are not good with you, others may have had similar experiences and seeing how they coped can sometimes help.

Croix

[Jeshu7773]

Years down on the bottom of the hole realising there was only one way out, very long climb up, but it happened although my depressive illness had not ceased i learned to deal with my down heap better than just give into the negativity ponding.

A Pit left behind

As I climb over the rim, I clearly see;
a trembling passes through what once was me:
below, without bottom, the pit still lies
an open wound beneath familiar skies.

A depth that calls without a sound,
a pull that circles, drawing down;
not distant, not elsewhere to flee
but something once alive in me.

Dark thoughts pound, not one, but many
threaded tight, accusing, heavy;
guilt and shame in woven breath,
whispering doubt, foretelling death.

Pressing, pressing, ever near,
feeding on remembered fear;
not from outside do they creep
but from the places buried deep.

And still they reach they cling, they claim
through heat, through spark, through searing flame;
my footing falters, stones give way,
old fires licking at my clay.

Why did I carry what burns so long?
Why did I call that darkness strong?
A weight once worn as part of me,
now seen for what it came to be.

[Croix]

Dear Jeshu7773~

I realy like both the hope this gives as you are looking back from a better place at what once was you and also the detail you went into that so many can relate to

Croix

[Jeshu7773]

@Croix  Thanks for the comments. Life has been pretty full on fro me lately. Trying to survive.