Trauma: The Diaries

Trauma: The Diaries

Prelude

Disclaimer/Warning

Events described in this ongoing multimedia novel may be triggering or be unsuitable for younger audiences, people battling mental illnesses, anyone who suffered any type of dramatic event in their lives, or anyone who sees mental illness as nothing more than an imaginary excuse to be a lazy member of society.

The traumatic events depicted are based on true personal events. All else is fictional and part of a created present and future for all the characters including the main character(s). All names, some dates, details, and elements have been changed or removed to preserve the privacy of anyone who may have been involved in any of the described personal events.

The purpose of this novel is to hopefully provide a better picture for everyone to understand what it really means to live with mental illness and show its realities and struggles. More precisely, this novel relates to post-traumatic stress disorder, chronic major depression, anxiety and obsessive-compulsive disorder. But regardless of the diagnostic, the symptoms of any mental illness can have deep mental and physical repercussions, sometimes including death.

On the other hand, it is my hope that this novel can bring peace, or help in any way anyone who has, or is currently affected by mental illness. You are not alone. We all have our own story that led us here. It is so important to understand that this is not a competition. Our stories may be different but all these feelings we struggle with every day, and their consequences on our quality of life are very similar.

These emotions are what allows us to relate to each other, be emphatic, and understand each other without any of the physical boundaries.

Chapter one : The Closet

According to Oxford’s definition, trauma refers to “a deeply distressing or disturbing experience”. It also refers to the “emotional shock following a stressful event or a physical injury, which may lead to long-term neurosis”. For me, it was my first day working full-time as Preconscious. I am my host's mental security guard of sort. It is my duty to filter every sensations, memories, experiences, knowledge, and emotions coming in from the day he was born, to the moment he dies. What I do with them afterwards? Simply put, I separate all the negative and hurtful segments and send them to the basement where I try to keep them as far in the subconscious as possible. Problem is, after awhile, the basement can sometimes overflow.

By the time he was five, on that early-fall night, I already had years of suppression skills under my belt. I mean, he already had to go through so much. To understand where is mental state was on that night, I need to take you back to the beginning.

My host almost died before he was even born. He had the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck which caused a lack of oxygen to the brain. Doctors told his parents that there was a high chance he would not be able to walk. As for any other cognitive loss, they would just have to wait and see. Thankfully, he did have caring parents who thought of any way to make his life as normal as possible. They introduced him to swimming as a baby to get his legs moving right away. It took a long time, hard work, and a few tears, but got to walk and run, which is more than they could have wished for. Unfortunately, his legs were not the only obstacle. It also left him with severe asthma which required annual test, sometimes weekly attacks ending at the hospital, partial facial paralysis, and even deafness.

One night during supper, his parents found out watching TV. He turned to his parents and and asked why was the TV broken. So they asked him to turn it up until he hears it. Still nothing. Turns out, he had learn to read lips and imitate the facial movement to speak. A surgery and a month later, he could finally hear most tones. For some reason, he still had a hard time with voices and pronunciation. So off to the hospital again for speech therapy, yearly hearing tests and more physiotherapy. He spent most of his childhood in hospitals. He knew the staff better than his meager two friends.

Psychiatry was also on the menu. He was in the hospital so much, he never had a chance to develop meaningful friendships. He had two friends: Kids from the neighborhood he would hang out with, but they were not exemplary. They were also often away into competitive sports. So he was left to himself most of the time. If it was not with his two sisters, he could always be found among adults listening in and sponging all he could. When waiting for hours in waiting rooms, he made up a few games to kill time. After reading the same kids books from 20 years ago a few times, he was left with only his imagination to play with. He would sit there and smell this nauseating odor of disease and death hunting the halls of the hospital. He used to count the holes on the ceiling tiles to pass the time waiting for his turn. He met many people while there. Many kids that he saw for the last time. Not because they went home, but because they never left.

I had to suppress all these memories. It took a lot of courage and efforts to be able to keep up with other kids his age: He was already thinking about the meaning of life. I had to take all his experiences and trying to make sense of all of it for such a young mind. Thankfully, it was all he knew so it became a routine and made it a lot easier for me. I did not have to fill out the basement so much. It all changed that night. All the pain and diseases he saw in the hospital could not prepare him or myself to what happened that night. Now, what was I supposed to do? The effects of such event...

There was only one thing to do and it was to forget about it. I put it so deep in the back of his subconsciousness, I thought he would never have to live it again. I was wrong. What else was I to do? He was one of his favorite cousin. The one he used to look up to. He never saw the seven year difference between them as an issue. So to him, they were entering the closet for a game. It was just a game. Just a game. If I only knew then what this game would bring out of him so many years later; Perhaps I would have left the conscience speak up. Instead, I suppress it all: The softness and warmth of the furry winter jacket pressing against my bare back., the roughness of his fingers reaching down the back of my pants, the sweaty palms, the sound of his breath spading up as he was squeezing my hand in place harder and harder. The quickness to which he would be leaving him in the closet once he was done. Leaving him to himself trying to understand what just had happened while cleaning himself off with a shirt he knew he would have to hide in his laundry basket later.

I had to erase it all. I had to fill up the basement and hope there would be room left for all the years to come. Little did I know, I should have left room for all the other times they played the game until he finally lost 3 years later. That war was over. I never recall what had happened but we never saw him again. Except in my host's dreams or when the subconscious decides to erupt once in awhile. I was able to keep these memories hidden from him for twenty-two years. Deep under all the other traumatic events that pilled-up over those years.

No. I would not have done it any other way. If I had, perhaps I would I would retired a long time ago.

I am exhausted for today. You will have to return another day to know why the closet is where it began, and where it should have stayed.

To be continued...