Trauma. That is life summed up in one word for many of us.
A series of unending torturous events whose effects touch on every aspect of our lives from the moment they happen to the moment we die. They define us; our thoughts, our impulses, our ADDICTIONS, our biases. They break us. They turn us into something we were never meant to be.
They shape how we respond to the world we find ourselves in. They kill us from the inside, and before we know it we’ve messed up; we’ve hurt the ones that love us-the ones that never hurt us; we’ve missed out on life because we were so fixated on these bad things that happened to us. Many of us never learn how to deal with these events. Majority of us never get over it.
The worst thing about these traumatic events other than the way they cause the victims to self-harm is that that pain is passed down. Studies have shown that the fear, the pain, and anxiety we experience during a traumatic event is stored in our memories and gets encoded into our DNA. This genetic material is passed down to the next generation, and this is how irrational fears, anxieties, and phobias develop in people. In short, trauma-related stress, fear and anxiety can be inherited just like many of the disorders we suffer.
I am chicken-shit scared of heights and speed. And domestic animals, for goodness sake! Domestic animals. My ancestors must have experienced some pretty nasty things in their lives. Poor them. They must have been short. I feel like they were short. Could that be my DNA linked to their DNA talking? Science is so cool!
Some of us never learn to move past it regardless of what we try. The experience becomes a permanent shadow; an ever-present, over-bearing guest in your body, in your mind, in your soul. You want to run away from it, you want to escape, but it’s futile to resist. It chokes you and you know you have nowhere to run. Nowhere. You’re just an empty shell, going through the motions of daily life.
You’re broken, and the voices keep telling you you are. They keep getting louder, and there are no more places to hide within yourself. You can’t escape this, and everyone else feels like they are a million miles away. You’re scared to look into people’s eyes because you don’t want them to see inside. To see the horror you’re living through.
You’re embarrassed because you’re broken. You’re embarrassed to be this broken.
Suicide becomes so alluring every time you think about it. Finally, you and those voices are on the same page. They want you to disappear as much as you do. You’re giving up, they’re getting stronger. You’re exhausted, and you do not have it in you to fight anymore.
It becomes easier thinking about it. It gives you some relief thinking that all of this could be over in an instant. You spend months gathering the courage to go through with it. The voices are constantly taunting you, and your spirit calmly resigns to the fate that they are right. You’re useless, you’re pointless, you keep making mistakes. These voices aren’t lying, and you know it, and they know it. It’s just a matter of time.
The day comes. You didn’t plan it to be this day, but something throws you over the edge today. It’s finally too much and your spirit begs you to go through with it.
The shop. A bunch of Piritons, about 12 of them. You hold on to them as you walk back home. You’re heart is not even racing. Your mind is made up. There’s peace inside for the first time in a long time.
1st pill. 2nd pill. 3rd pill. Nothing is going through your head. Nothing! But there are tears. No wailing. Just tears flowing down your cheeks.
8th pill. No more tears to cry now. You’re tired, you’re drowsy. It’s done. You sleep.
But, I woke up. Fuck it, I woke up! This was just a couple of years ago, about five. Something in me refused to die that day. I don’t know what. What I do know is that I have been awake ever since.
My biological mother never woke up. I don’t how many she took. No one ever told me.
She left a note. I know some details of it, I never got to read it. I don’t need a note to know what she was thinking.
I write these words because I know what she was going through. I’ve lived it. It’s inscribed in me, in my memory, in the way I see my world.
I finally understand how it was to have been in her mind especially those few months before THE EVENT.
When she took those pills, when she went to sleep, and never woke up, she probably didn’t know that she was opening the door for us to do the same thing.
Her trauma was the beginning of my trauma. I don’t want my trauma to lead to my kids’ trauma. I want to break this cycle, and I feel that I started breaking it the day I woke back up.
Trauma! What a bitch!