Pocket full of trauma

I walk around sick to my stomach all the time these days, as I have at various other times in my life. I think it’s the pocket (okay, luggage set) full of trauma I’m carrying around. I’ve been through some shit. And by some, I mean a lot. Most of which I haven’t dealt with other than to disassociate until it passes & then dance away like River Tam after a brutal fight.

Okay, maybe not that graceful. Definitely that distinctly different though. The last time I remember the intestinal Celtic knot being this bad was late grammar school. I remember it invading my dreams, then my thoughts until it was all pervading.

Last night I dreamt of my mother abusing me. I’m uncertain if the dream was dream or memory. It was plausible & had the appropriate soundtrack for reality but… it wasn’t something I remembered while waking.

I’ve become a bit obsessed with the idea of inventorying my trauma. It would be as much to say “look at what I’ve overcome” as it would be to say “see… this is why I’m so fucked up”. I think it might make things (actions, attitudes, & sore spots) make more sense. Who wants to really look at nothing but their damage all in one sweetened condensed list though? I wonder if there’s a way to balance it? A way to tally the good separate from the bad so that once I let go of the bad I will still have some past to hold onto, to claim ownership over.


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