Radio Dada

I have an appointment. And another breakdown, which eventually includes selections from ‘Hamilton,’ which help me feel better.

Finally. That was brutal. Better out than in, and maybe if I do this regularly I won’t have such incoherent stress-induced logorrhea attacks.

I don’t know if I’m recirculating the trauma or trying to get it out of my head so it doesn’t choke me and paralyze me when I need to be smart, and act, and possibly leave. This is fallout from abuse. This is why trauma informed care is important. The bulk of the healing and therapy and work in my recovery will be done by me so why should I not be consulted and deferred to as the leader of Team Me? I can’t risk vomiting all this over a therapist or counselor no matter how they might try to convince me it will help them help me. I have to keep us focused and on task in spite of fear, pain, past trauma, limbic flashbacks. I have to be on top of the situation where I have been hurt so much, so many times. I am breaking and I have to appear whole, but not so whole that people think I have it and don’t need help. I do. Help.

Because I have to try one more time to find someone who is not just faking it but has a mind that works and a heart willing to help and the capacity in their life to do so.

Talking myself through and up to trying something scary that has gone terribly. Reminding myself that this is very different and that’s why I’m here. Things may seem the same as shit that traumatized and damaged me, but may bear closer scrutiny. After all, people have pleasantly surprised me over the last year. And unpleasantly, too, but everything got more extreme.

Talking in a big circle around communication problems, for irony’s sake.

Sometimes the only way out is through. If I alleviate the verbal swelling on my brain will I find coherency and brevity I can use to connect with someone who could still support me, and want to? I think for too long I’ve communicated with people who don’t inhabit a reality anywhere near mine.

Sometimes it still repeats on me, and questions that can never be answered, and things that seem unreal to others discussed in the warm light of day in a world thousands of miles away from years of madness. I still remember. I still wonder. I can’t help but be reminded of it, but know that it won’t change, and wondering doesn’t help, and neither does anything anyone says about a night without witnesses where I ran away, dodged a bullet, and escaped. Also I sometimes love my island home a little too much, making love to it by walking it with my feet, raking over its details with ears and eyes, and sweat and rash up. It’s funny to love an island so hard I’m walking like a bowlegged equestrian. If I could walk off these thoughts I would, but instead I’ll confess them a bit between canine tirades and classic car engine roars.

Talking in big circles around and through dreadful traumas and fears, sex and money and violence and loss and shame, to come back to a love and passion that is enough to pull me back. To be my totem. To withstand the vicissitudes of life, slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, trials of time and people who seek to shit on others’ happiness and Debbie-Down everything. Avoiding such tendencies in myself and others to remind myself again and again how this place saves me every day.

Rather than eyes of fear. And take more walks. This is what I fought for. Embarrassed myself for, survived for. This is different. This is better. I’m home.