Ghosts of the Past
Halloween haunts with ghosts,
These lighthearted jokes.
What is it to be haunted by a past:
To move through life holding dark memories?
Broken and unseen.
Afraid none will care to hold you between the thorns,
Spikes that have grown against your will.
Hope diminished in the brightest day,
Moments of life out of your control.
Memories repeated without your prejudice:
Casting shadows where happiness resides.
Haunting.
Daring.
Clawing.
Reminding.
What would it to be normal for just one moment?
To stand in the sunshine and feel its warmth,
Bathed in the joy of spring growth.
To think upon nothing but that moment.
Look across to see smiling face of a loved one,
Never to fear they’ll be taken from you.
To exist upon these sands of time, whole.
Yet, the choice remains:
To find the goodness in each moment—
Even amongst the fears.
To follow a path of my own choosing.
Where upon my footstep walk,
Strength be found in all that was—
And hope grows even upon the darkest of days:
Entrapping those ghosts of the past.
—EJB
I know you suffer. I know life isn’t what it should be. But even amongst those moments, we will always have the choice to be better than what was. And, it is in this choosing that we can change what will be. This is the spirit of what I write below and have written above.
I have tried, many times to describe what it feels like inside my head when an episode of PTSD ignites. When the world becomes unbearable, and nothing I can do seems to calm me down, barely keeping myself above water. I feel like it is an illusive feeling, such a painful experience words themselves hide from description. I calmly breathe. Stim. Seek isolation. Yet, the war in my mind rages: memories I do not want to recollect fight to play out in the theater of my own mind. Exacerbated by the facts of my life that were altered when I was five years old. And in those moments I feel more alone than a star in nights sky, lost in the brilliance of those around me. And as tears fall down my cheek, my body hoping to release the sadness, I am reminded of the unfairness in always fighting these battles alone—even as a child. Fear engulfs me and I wonder how many we have lost who didn’t have the strength of will? How many have we lost and called cowards? The sadness deepens. Imagine the worst experience of your life: replay that over and over again. Now replay that when you are happy. I would imagine, hell is a kinder place.
If you see someone suffering, extend them a thought of peace. They may not be as lucky as you.
I wrote the above words in my little notes app while starting my work day, I also wrote the following words: I write this and now I must go back to work. Because that is what is expected of me. Anger swelled inside me. Not an anger that I felt sad, or even an anger and these memories which haunt me, anger for all those who cannot slow down long enough to allow themselves to feel the pain. That cannot afford to pause. And in that anger, later that night came the words that follow below:
The sheer ridiculousness that I am to project a perfect version of myself at all times; lest I be home in the four walls of a prison by which none can see through unless I allow them in. Intimacy designed only for a select few, mostly those who inspire desire. We create boundaries to protect ourselves from each other.
I can tell you, as a boy, all I wanted was to be seen. And as an adult all I’ve known is people who’ve told me I am too different. Told me to conform. That my brokenness makes them uncomfortable and I should hide it. My mind, fractured in its million of pieces, is exactly what makes me who I am. To hide the terror I endured would be to hide myself. Perhaps I am too much for many—and maybe I would like to be enough for just one—but in that too much maybe others will find that they can be so much more. Because to be seen is not to conform. To be known is not to fit in.
We must always be ourselves. If we are any less we are dust in the wind: a minor inconvenience lost in time.
—EJB
