PTSD

My life is measured out in coffee spoons.”–T.S. Eliot

 

My life is measured out

In handfuls of pills

To be taken at precise moments

Reminded on my calendar

That are often dismissed.

They deaden the nerves

As if somehow dulling life down

Would make life more be bearable.

They don’t work very well

And I walk around forgetting important things

Like what I was going to do seconds ago.

 

My life is measured out

In therapy visits

Where we discuss the elusive goals

And talk of many things

That my mind screams should never be spoken.

I leave drained and upset

But hopeful that the demons have been exercised enough

So the terrors would be easier to handle.

 

My life is measured out

In flashbacks and nightmares

Where the monsters intrude and sneer

Where the abuse replays like T.V. reruns

Where the violence reoccurs in the bad neighborhood

Of my memory.

I cry out in pain and I cry.

 

My life is measured out

In lowered curtains and locked doors,

In needing a person to walk through public places

Because I don’t know if the stranger next to me

Is my abuser, or knows my abusers

And therefore knows to harm me and my own.

My home is my refuge but also my prison.

I yearn to be free but fear that I cannot.

I crave to leave here but promised that I wouldn’t.

I dream for my life to be unmeasured.

 

© 2013 Valerie Hathaway

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