You are the restless tattoo of my sorrow Inked deeper than my skin, deeper than my bone Your brilliance shines through to my most hidden my most protected depths Thoughts, emotions... these are no match for you, They are consumed, obliterated in your wake Your caress deafens me, shakes my existence Hold me in those cruel arms, I will not shun you Let your suffocating presence steal my breath once more
Be calm my beautiful friend I greet you without fear I am listening, confide in me You are welcome here
Cigarette smoke tickles my lungs as I inhale the closest thing I ever got from you. I don’t smoke but you did most of your life. Truthfully, I smoked often after your death; Feeling though if this was a way to feel your presence. Though it only irritates my lungs. One night I drank 3 bottles of wine; I don’t drink. I burnt a hole in my couch singing “before you go”; hadn’t lit up anything other than marijuana since then. Smoking wouldn’t bring my father back. Wouldn’t repair the trauma he caused during my youth. 31 years old doesn’t prepare you for the death of your father. The three months you gained weight Didn’t leave your bed Pushed many of your friends away because rejection sensitivity. And cried so hard you nearly threw up 3 months of worsening binge eating where you felt so full you couldn’t breathe Severe depression And oddly enough suicide ideation. Misplaced guilt from abuse that wasn’t your fault. Sweat soaked sheets from chaotically descriptive nightmares Unrelenting dissociation. Even longer tangling with delicious self hatred, words your father used when he would belittle your body while you developed an eating disorder at his hand. My thighs are getting bigger -insert self loathing here- I won’t repeat those abusive words; As I’m trying to heal. 5 nights shy of 1 year. I can say I finally like myself. The other side of shutdown reared it’s caressing warmth; The chrysalis of self discovery erupting like a volcanic convocation. Complex post traumatic stress disorder. I wear this diagnosis like a badge, proof of my experiences. I miss you. Though I am not unhappy you’re gone.
Descriptive piece on my fathers suicide. Tw: death. Eating disorder. Suicide.
The world warps And goes fuzzy around the edges Like I am not real, A place holder or chest piece. My limbs do not move like they are mine, As if they are foreign bodies attached to my trunk. The floor is the only solace. I melt into the stiff boards and rough carpet Until the world tilts back and becomes Whole again.
You walk up to the porch, muddy boots disturbing settled dust Looking down, you proceed to wipe boots off I cringe slightly as muck settles into my crevices You finish your task and step onward toward warmth, leaving your wake behind ***** and dripping wet “Let me get the door for you”, I say happily as I brush the dirt off my clothes following you inside.
Cptsd fawn. This is an analogy of people pleasing as a trauma response.