C-PTSD

The fatigue from chonic pain takes over, and the stress relief of seeing two medical professionals in one day. An ordinary day stresses enough, the wiring in my brain and psyche always at the ready. That is tiring.

Spending the day wrapped warmly in my bathrobe as if I were sick, drinking hot cocoa with a dollop of whipped cream, the critic wouldn’t shut up comparing me to my friends or just about anybody else I know.

Do something other than put up Christmas decorations you nut bag, you lazy thing.

A wiser voice then saying, It’s OK to bring pretty lights into dark days even if it breaks with tradition.

The focus it takes to care for my body is exhausting, thinking of every move, every item put in my mouth. After too many days of pain, not knowing the gum was so injured thinking instead it was something wedged up inside the gums, it’s all soft food till it heals.

It is not the nature of my being since age of 8 to show care or compassion towards myself, and to do so takes all my energy and attention. How could something so simple be so hard?

It’s OK, it’s OK. That voice is so needed, and probably till the day I die. A softer, accepting voice in the face of the critic born at age 8 with no one to help, care, or save me.

Blaming myself for it all, the unprocessed trauma turned to Medusa in my belly biting with stinging venom. It isn’t possible, despite herculean efforts, that normalcy ever completely returns. Haywire wiring becomes permanent over time as trauma suffers, raging with silence in containment.

Improvement occurs, moments of joy, but it is hard, even gruelingly hard at times. Tension stays, the antennae up, guns at the ready. But peace comes, it comes with work, it comes with love and acceptance of self and all that is true about me- without running or splitting off into my other safe place, a dimension others traumatized know of.

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