Post- Traumatic HeartSpace

Simple human mistake. 
Traffic ticket in the mail. 
Or I buy the wrong item at a hardware store. 
Or I’m reminded of a painful memory. 
Or a coworker cusses someone out. 
Or there’s no discernable trigger at all. 

Suddenly, daddy-Monster explodes – 
in my face – 
once again – 
forty-five years after his death. 

He is resurrected. 
I can’t see him or hear him. 
But his voice is in my head. 
He cusses me out. 
He screams that I’m stupid. 
He condemns me 
and calls me incompetent. 

My muscles tighten and shake. 
My breathing becomes shallow. 
I freeze. 
I can’t speak. 
I can’t think. 
I can’t function. 

Hyperalert – and powerless. 
I’m as a small child again – 
under attack, 
paralyzed within. 

All this: 
forty-five years 
after his death. 

I know he’s not real, 
but his hypercritical voice is real. 
The violence of the past is present – 
and in my face. 

I’m angry at him, 
but I can’t express it in the moment. 
I learned long ago to stay silent – 
silent and never safe. 

Post-traumatic Monster, 
dead four and a half decades, 
still alive and condemning me. 
The extinct volcano, 
spewing his venomous lava at me. 

Thirty-eight years of recovery work: 
and the ghost of undead daddy-Monster – 
he still haunts me. 

What do I do about this? 
I’ve tried therapy. 
The first sessions were great. 
I got a lot off my chest. 

But nothing after four sessions. 
Only dispassionate and distant presence. 
Does the therapist even hear me? 
No real connection. 
No evidence of understanding. 
Same with other therapists. 

But I’ve found small groups – 
filled with those who “get it”. 
These are my people, 
my fellow travelers. 

I listen to their truths, 
and I tell my truth – 
the painful, ugly truth. 
I revisit the trauma; 
I do not bury it. 

Courage, courage to revisit the past. 
I write my trauma. 
I rewrite my trauma. 
Again and again, 
diving deeper each time. 

Having once been silenced 
by daddy-Monster 
and also by many others, 
I confront through my writing. 

I hear my voice. 
I see my voice – written down. 
I tell myself the truth, 
the truth denied by many others. 

I breathe – deeply. 
I scream – when necessary. 
I let it out. 
And I breathe some more. 

Resolution – partial resolution. 
Full resolution? 
Not yet, maybe never. 
Still I climb, 
another step closer to wholeness. 

I face forward, 
knowing the ghost 
of undead daddy-Monster 
will strike me again. 

I get triggered. 
I write. 
I share. 
I heal a little. 

The cycle repeats indefinitely. 

– Healing Heart Warrior (Tom M.)