That Fear (Trigger Warning)

I felt the fear, the fear that comes with speaking out against someone. I felt the fear, the fear that comes when they reply to silence you. I haven’t replied yet, to this person. I called ableism, someone else spoke up and the fear did not go away. I felt utterly terrified to see what was said in my reply. They said something that erased my existance and experience, and refused to see that there is the potential for us to both be right, since the matter is subjective and personal.

The fear makes me angry. I dislike it. It “smells” like my father. Her words sounded like his. The general brush off was as if I was a child. I am a woman damn it. I am an adult. I am as close to self sufficient as my body allows. I felt it, that shame creeping in with the fear. I spoke. I reacted. I know the cause. This was a trigger.

The fear is not really fear from now but is fear leaking in from my past. The question I replied to had to do with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I always feel the fear when I talk about that. Sometimes I cannot make sounds with my mouth in regards to PTSD. Sometimes, I am enforced into silence because of the fear. If I let the fear go on, and sometimes I cannot stop it next I feel like I am being strangled. I can hear his wheezy laugh. He was laughing at my suffering. It’s a flash back in a way. The visual element is not there but even as I write this the fear is there, I feel it burning on my neck. The burning is from the time he put a hot thing there because I sneezed in church. The hot thing left no permanent marks, visibly but it is there. The burning stops only when I put my hand on it, and only for a split second.

Next my hands hurt. Mostly my right hand, which was always hurt as punishment. There is a somatic reaction. Somatic means physical from the mind. The mind body connection. my hand is burned, twisted, mangled. The knuckles are swelling and my hand is red. My reynauds is flairing from the stress. I am calm however. My body is in a storm but as I focus on what is real I find that inner calm. The fear is washing away. The stimulated senses will tingle and burn for a while, yet the fear is fading.

This was small, this time. I dislike the fear. I hate it. The fear does not obey rational thought. The fear does not let the music in. My world is made of music, I live in my own Broadway show. Every sound is music. Every breath is song. Every sensation is a note. Sometimes they are dark and discordant and other times they are soft, timid. Still the fear makes them silent.

This is Post Traumatic Stress. This is what it is to be triggered. Some of you know this. Some of you may not. Being triggered also happens in degrees or on a spectrum. This was a minor episode. For the major, my world disappears for days and I am lost in my childhood. That unhappy place.

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2 Comments

  1. it s like being in a constant state of perpetual healing… the days i mean,,,,where our worlds disappear for days on end.
    how to, fear perpetuates itself, as a separate, but ultimately interconnectedness…
    the transferrance of fear from others…
    even stating this here, now, i recall a recent youtube recommendation,,, albeit an auto generated recommendation based on what one was listening to,,, most recently another poem from Emily Dickenson auto generated this one:

    One need not be a chamber to be haunted…………..

    One need not be a Chamber—to be Haunted—
    One need not be a House—
    The Brain has Corridors—surpassing
    Material Place—

    Far safer, of a Midnight Meeting
    External Ghost
    Than its interior Confronting—
    That Cooler Host.

    Far safer, through an Abbey gallop,
    The Stones achase—
    Than Unarmed, ones aself encounter—
    In lonesome Place—

    Ourself behind ourself, concealed—
    Should startle most—
    Assassin hid in our Apartment
    Be Horrors least.

    The Body—borrows a Revolver—
    He bolts the Door—
    Oerlooking a superior spectre—
    Or More—

  2. It can be a perpetual state of healing but reaching that point takes a lot of work. Still that poem is perfectly fitting. The imagery is accurate to no end isn’t it?


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