The birds were in my head

CW: Post contains mentions of childhood trauma, childhood cancer, domestic issues, mention of depression. I do suffer from CPTSD and right now I’m trying to find an outlet and be heard at the same time. I’ve never been good at talking and a lot of this has recent come flowing out like the dam keeping it back has been broken. Right now, what I have are collections of my thoughts but I hope one day to turn it into something that can help someone else who has felt, or still feels the same way and needs to knwo they’re not alone.

A wound that never closes.

Trauma is defined as a ‘deeply distressing or disturbing experience.’ That’s the definition I grabbed from google when I was trying to figure out how to start this. Underneath that is the word ‘wound’ and while that may be true I’ve felt personally attacked by this. The scholars and educators that put together these words should know better because it is so much more than that.

Let me explain:

Imagine waking up in your own bedroom, the comfort of your own house. Your cat is sleeping at the end of the bed, your dog curled up underneath the blankets. Behind the curtains, the blinds, you see the rays of the sun peeking through. Glimpses of your back yard with the big pine tree, your mom’s three legged dog running around the yard, chasing the birds out — but then a hand touches you and shakes you awake.

You open your eyes and through the window you see out into a parking lot, an old church ext to it. The RTA busses making their stops. The sun is barely up. It’s not morning at all. The birds weren’t there. The hand is familiar but terrifying, startling you every 3–4 hours to get you to relieve yourself because of the poision they were pumping into your body.

The hospital reeks of alcohol pads and a nauseating scent of coffee from from the bakery in the lobby. You flinch away from the hand and try to lay back down, but you know this one by name, she’s been on call all night and taking care of you. While you’re away in the bathroom they refill your CLINIC cup with ice and water, watch you drink when you come back, making sure you’re doing as your told.

Trauma is being isolated from your family.

One to two adults allowed in at a time, but your brother and sister can’t come anywhere near you. H1N1 is in the area and your compromised immune system can’t handle it. You open the curtain and the way the building is designed, you can see across the floor, loking into the lobby by the security desk, the two best friends you have smashing their faces together in the window, sadly waving back, wishing they could see you.

Trauma is being overdosed on a drug more potent than morphine.

The last words that leave your mouth before your whole world goes dark, falling under a surface of water- “I don’t feel so good.” You don’t know how much time has passed or ever have it explained to you what happened. You went from one nurse at your bedside to a team of people surrounding you as you slowly come to consciousness. You realize your gown is unbuttoned, there are leads on your chest to monitor your heart, an ambu-bag on the bedside table next to you. You don’t understand what happens until your parents arrive and they ask what happen. A member of the staff laughs and waves it off. “We gave her too much dilauded.”

Trauma is watching your hair fall out in clumps.

Pretending it doesn’t hurt, acting like you’re okay. Everyone’s been up your ass, checking in, trying to find out what you’re thinking. It’s when you’re standing in your Type-A Aunt’s house, not a speck of dust or dirt on the floor, scratching your scalp only for a lock of hair to come falling out. You remember pulling open her trashcan before she comes back into the room with your mom, you hide underneath paper plates and news paper ads, ashamed to let them know it happened.

Trauma is survivor’s guilt.

Your cousin’s wife, your teacher’s son, the baby you hear one night screaming bloody murder on the ward and then silence the next. While you’re stuck in this state, frozen in time, pushing it all down and away, locking it into its cells, you cry when you’re alone and you wonder why it was them and not you. What are you able to offer, to give?

God has his plan laid out on the table, but you’re not allowed to look, you have to find it on your own.

“And after you have all suffered a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore you, confirm, strengthen and establish you.” 1 Peter 5:10

It doesn’t always look this way either:

It looks like dragging someone from the table to the car because they can barely stand.

It looks like arguments erupting in public places: little league games, outside a bar, at a holiday dinner.

It looks like being slapped across the face for doing what you were taught, standing up for your family.

In most homes honesty and loyalty are expected- unless they make someone angry.

In my opinion, as if it matters, trauma is a wound that never closes, it might scab over but the smallest memory, scent or word will tear it right open.

I forced it away, refused to address it. I wanted to grow up, move on, lost the ‘c’ word attachment. Survior? No, I’m surviving. My last round of chemo was 14/15 years ago but this is the monster that tagged along with me.

This quote has haunted me for years, “Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it.”

I dove into school when I was able, medical assistant, something that would help me get over it. As much as I succedded there, my name on the Dean’s list, my grades above average, I couldn’t escape the blood draw flash backs. One whiff of an alchol swab, and a bevel puncturing my vein, and I was back in that hospital in Cleveland. The fountain in front, the piano player in the lobby, the nauseating smell of bakery and coffee before we turned down the hall to the elevators to get to the floor that would change my life forever.

I failed that class.

I couldn’t return.

It’s been a very long time since I talked about any of this. I wasn’t sure if I should continue writing or even post this. It hurts that it’s not known. Trauma victims- survivors, they all have a definition of their own.

I see the ones who are successful, who’ve risen above and made it through, part of me feels jealous. I was suposed to be like that too. Instead I’m stuck in a bed, afraid to venture out, to say what needs to be said.

When I think about my trauma like this it makes me feel worthless, but something in me says write it down.

So I did.