trauma
At its core, trauma can be thought of as the psychological wounds that persist, even when the physical ones are long gone.
I was raped by porn.
There is a magical phase of childhood where the veil is still thin, memories of past lives can still be accessed, images and sounds can come through from other dimensions. A child’s imagination is open and curious. Whole landscapes can be created in the minds eye, full of colour and adventure. Characters can be birthed and excitement can be chased.
By Mirrie Parks5 years ago in Psyche
How to Stop the Rain
The rain went crash against the window. Crash. Crash. Crash against the window. Not the pitter patter of the morning or the thud of the afternoon. Thud. Thud. Thud of the afternoon. The wooden bed was hard and the hardwood floor was splintered and the splintered table smelt of damp and rotting wood. The metal bowl went clink. Clink. Clink went the metal bowl as the metal pipe dripped water into it. Drip, drop. Drip, drop. Clink. Clink.
By Eden Moran5 years ago in Psyche
"Age Ain't Nothin' But a Number."
TW: rape, child sexual assault, self-harm. *names have been changed “Let me tell you something. Age ain’t nothing but a number.” Tonya* punctuated her statement with a hand motion as though she were flattening linens, in a cadence that did not belong to a high schooler. Nor, however, did most of the experiences she had just finished relating to me.
By Blaze R. Fresh5 years ago in Psyche
The Ghost of Sisters Past
The snow fall, the colored lights, the smell of spruce hanging in the air and the buzzing of everyone you know usually signifies a time to be celebrated and hints that preparations for most peoples favorite time of year is underway. I would give anything if this still rang true for me. Sadly, I have not felt anything close to that holiday magic since I was a young girl.
By Breezy Rose5 years ago in Psyche
When Your Dad Tries to Kill You
First, I’m going to make it very clear that my biological father, who lives in Canada, is NOT my abuser. My mother, who was very abusive and neglectful, left my biological father sometime before I turned two. I want there to be no confusion. I have met my biological father, and he’s not the “hitting kids” type.
By Byron Hamel5 years ago in Psyche
Sometimes, It's Not That Simple
Start writing...Everyone starts out, at least in the realm of creative minds, as a dreamer - we dream of being the writer, being the artist, aspiring to heights of those that inspire us. I was one of those dreamers; my childhood was a wonderland of inspiration, with inspiration flooding my young mind at every turn. I wanted to draw everything I saw, learn every song, write stories based on whatever irreverent cartoon had captured my attention that morning. This continued into my teens, and I constantly strove to fine-tune my talents for expressing the world through the eyes of an eternal explorer. I was eventually accepted into an accredited art school, where I discovered photography as my true passion in short order. Then the accident happened. I'll spare the graphic details of my near-miss with the hereafter(that's another story entirely), and jump to two weeks later - waking up in an intensive care unit, wrapped in bandages and still hearing the freight train roaring in my head with every minor twitch and spasm. It was a rough and long road to recovery, in which I had to re-learn practically every voluntary motor function from scratch. I had suffered a massive head injury, and as a result even the most elementary of daily movement was a lesson in willpower. Fast-forward yet another year - I had fully recovered, and aside from a permanent limp and some equilibrium issues, I was back to functioning with a semi-consistent level of normalcy. Or so I thought. It started with whatever process takes place, when the image in one's head is transferred to the artist's hand - it was like a firewall had been installed, to prevent the communication from happening. Try as I could, even the most fundamental aspects of graphic art was suddenly terrifyingly alien... So I panicked. I tore through every medium I knew, with the result being the same every time. My first passion, it would seem, had left me. I jumped back into photography, as that was something that had always come naturally -- and couldn't manage to remember even the most simple rules. Writing proved as equally elusive to me, with hours spent staring at my computer screen with no idea where to start. I felt betrayed by my own mind, abandoned by the only true comfort I have ever known. I plummeted into alcohol-assisted depression, and gave up on life. Then the platitudes and criticism started flowing from friends and family. "It'll come back to you, give it time!" "It's just art, I'm sure you can find a new hobby" "Have you tried just *doing* it? It's that simple, just start drawing or writing and it will come back eventually" That was just under a decade ago; only recently have I been able to dip my toes back into the world of writing, the 'simplest' of art mediums. It's taken three days and insane focus to write the 498 words that you have read to this point. Whatever happened that day on the train tracks, rewrote something in my brain that killed a part of who I am as an individual. It changed my personality, perspectives on life, everything about me on an intrinsic level - the most terrifying part, is that there was no amnesia involved. I am consciously aware of who I was before, and accordingly I spend most days feeling like I'm inhabiting someone else's body. I still struggle with chronic depression and anxiety, with every new interaction triggering a bout of Imposter Syndrome - if I'm not me, how am I supposed to know if you are you? It has effected every aspect of my existence, yet I still get up every morning and put on a mask of relative stability. Life used to be simple, carefree, and fun. Unfortunately, dearest reader, sometimes it's not that simple. Life can turn itself upside down in an instant, leaving you with nothing where everything stood just moments before. This isn't some sickly-sweet platitude or motivational speech, telling you "ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE LOOK AT HOW I TURNED MY PITIFUL LIFE AROUND"; this is me, doing what it takes to regain some semblance of who I was before. Five days and countless cigarettes after starting this, we come to this point; if I captured your attention for a few moments and made Hunter S. Thompson roll over in his grave, then know that that means more to me than I probably realize. ~fin~
By Robert Donovan5 years ago in Psyche
Alcoholism
This story is based on my childhood when I was growing up with my parents before they divorced. It is not meant to bash my father because I do love him, and he has gotten so much better once he married my stepmother. I just want to get this story off my chest because it has bothered me for years and sometimes still affects me when someone I love starts getting angry, even if they are not drinking. I am sure that there are many people who have experienced this just like me and hope that things are better for you as well.
By Saydei Lee5 years ago in Psyche
The Narcissist vs The Empath
She spread her wings and flew the nest. On the track to college where she knew things would be different than her small town. She had a bright future ahead of her, she could feel it deep in her soul. She was loved on campus for her beautiful spirit and contagious engery. She took risks, she made strides, she was happy.
By Anneka Anderson5 years ago in Psyche
The Monster In The Living Room
As a disabled person myself, I am excused from certain behaviors BECAUSE I’m disabled. I’ve had people refuse to make arguments with me because “They couldn’t argue with someone mentally disabled.” I’ve had people dismiss toxic behaviors because I’m autistic. If I’m wrong, I may not understand it, but how can I learn to be better if someone doesn’t openly talk to me about it? It’s infantilization, and honestly, it’s ableist not to hold disabled people accountable for their actions. Disabled adults can still make mistakes, have problematic and hurtful behaviors, be racist, transphobic, etc. Our abilities or inabilities don’t excuse hurting others, and often, able bodied people use our disorders, diseases & disabilities as an excuse to not help us grow and do better. As if we aren’t human enough to be worth the effort, we’re not seen as valid. We can and will put in the work that we are capable of, and not calling us out on things we may be missing, can hinder more than help us. I’m not perfect, no one is, but I also don’t want to be treated like a child because I’m autistic with physical limitations.
By Josey Pickering5 years ago in Psyche
