I haven’t been deployed to another country for battle but have been in my own combat zone. I’ve had to run, hide and plan ingenious strategies to survive.
I was not trained for this war. I was thrust into it and like a savage I had to build my own artillery.
I live in a war zone. I am ambushed by memories and symptoms that wage inside of me.
My life has been steeped with trauma causing my limbic and somatic systems to rest in high alert.
I get disoriented because I have run to what I thought was my camp, my people, and my bunker, only to find out I’d been tricked. Those who were supposed to protect me didn’t.
I am hyper-vigilant and have learned to watch my back. I’m a sniper on the field learning strategy and plan. I can’t allow the terrorist to target me again.
My world spins in circles.
My plans fail me and my mind goes blank when I stand eye to eye with the enemy. Unable to process what is happening, a natural drug kicks in and my defense system goes off line. My circuit board has malfunctioned.
I am trapped on mazed ground. I think I find the exit paths only to find they have been replaced with land mines.
Deafening screams mock me as I attempt the trenches that seem too arduous to climb. I am overwhelmed as my brain loops over and over on the same path trying to escape.
I cut to see blood, I want the poison to leave. I am numb and need to know I am still alive. I drink sometimes to escape. I want to die. It’s as if an ax has split me in two causing the sides of my head to fall in opposite directions.
I look up and search for light but instead see black clouds filled with evaporated hope.
The rain comes and I fear I will be washed away so I cling to old habits as the water rushes around me only to be swept away again.
I long for rest but can’t. Trauma doesn’t sleep or follow the rhythm of a clock. It wakes me at one and three and whenever else it chooses then follows me through my day.
It is an acid that has eroded my world over time.
My uniform dignifies me, I look composed and together while inside my brain is like an office that’s been ransacked. My files are strewn everywhere.
I am incubated in fear and terror. I hide. I don’t want to show myself and am desperate for someone to see me.
I have so many words and yet I have none. My body heaves as deep sobs that hold so much bubble up.
I manage marriage, life, and kids while forced to live in different rooms during the day. It is here I have had to make new hiding places to keep my younger places safe.
I say my prayers and march in line. Maybe if I do it all right this will go away and the enemy will surrender and leave.
My despair overtakes me and causes me to double over, my breath has been snatched again.
“Jesus sees you and He is the great comforter”, these words can’t penetrate the hardened places.
Worship soothes me but doesn’t extricate or dismantle the torment.
I silently suffer. No meals will be brought or get well soon cards sent in the mail.
Even those close to me don’t always understand. They think I am tough and sometimes forget about my deep pain.
These five shiny stars are flashy.
I pay for time each week. An hour to try and explain, in hope my war will be understood. It is now, and only now my trauma is on the clock.
New strategies are made to try and push back the enemy line, in hope for some relief.
It feels so cruel that I have to work so hard to escape the injury that others have caused in this combat zone.
When I get up to leave the sirens in me go off again.
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My stories feel strewn across the walls, in the cracks of the sofa and on the lap of the person sitting across from me. My tears are soaked in tissues that will eventually be thrown into the dumpster out back. These are holy tears; evidence my heart is still alive.
I look up. The black clouds have moved leaving hues of blue.
A costly ray of hope penetrates my tired heart as parts of me begin to immerge.
I am deployed back to my body.
*This is a collective piece describing what it has felt like to live with trauma, this is not reflective of Megan’s current state today.
On a perfect day Megan would be sitting in a cozy chair or perched on her porch swing listening to the hearts and stories of others. She is a dreamer of hope, healing and redemption. She has been married 17 years to her creative,tender-hearted, piano playing husband . She is the mother of 6 spirited children who bring her deep joy. She loves Hot Tamales, reading and singing in her sauna, dirty chai’s, and essential oils . She is a natural gatherer and organizer. You’ll often find her listening to audio books while doing laundry and Costco runs.
Megan, This piece was mesmerizing. So precisely written. So descriptive of the trauma that some of us lived/live with. So accurate. So raw. The line that really struck me and drew me back to it again was, “My tears are soaked in tissues that will eventually be thrown into the dumpster out back. These are holy tears; evidence my heart is still alive.” Holy tears. Yes. They were and are Holy tears. Thank you for sharing with us. Beautifully written and beautifully conveyed.
Megan,
whoo…This is so raw, engaging, and filled with language that has been fought for. The words don’t come easy and my heart feels deep grief in my bones for these places you have had to find your way through and sunbeam of hope of your fight for goodness for yourself. This story has given me life today and has whispered to my heart to keep doing the work, keep fighting. “These are holy tears; evidence my heart is still alive.” Oh, such sacred and true words. Thank you for sharing your story, for inventing me into yours and in turn further into mine. I wish I had more words. This is so sacred to me.
Well done friend! Barbara noted the same line so compelling to me, too. A vivid testimony to a story healing, still and always.
This is holy. Thank you so much for the honor of being let in to the inner reality that you and so many live with. Truly holy ground. You are a 5 Star General continuing to offer to others in a powerful way.
I am grateful for the disclaimer that this is not where you are in battle today. What imagery! What horror. Thank you Megan for sharing this dark, thrilling, march of going down the rabbit hole in battle with you. I cannot begin to claim my favorite verse/images. I pray this deployment is filled with goodness, praise and peace.
Oh Megan, this is one of the most profound, courageous and vivid pieces I have read on the impact of trauma on our bodies. I could weep over what your body has endured. At the same time, I stand in awe and thank Jesus for your resourcefulness, creativity and tenacity. Your battle for life and desire to inhabit your body after immense bloodshed leaves me speechless. I am deeply honored to call you friend.
Yet your heart is still alive. Your spirit not destroyed. What a powerful and gripping description of the daily battle. Thank you for painting a picture that so many can resonate with and for revealing the depths to which trauma can take you. May these days be but memories and may light and the blue skies shine bright.
Thank you much for writing something so brave and raw. Your words and honesty give those who don’t understand a glimpse of what it’s like to live with trauma. And for those who have or are experiencing it, your words honor them. So many parts gripped my heart and made me pause. I believe your words have the power to offer healing and will help so many feel seen. Again, thank you.
Oh, Friend,
You have been in a war, fighting off the enemies in hard places. I want to hold your heart and continually rub the golden salve of the healing and promises of Christ.
May you march to find the lake lace of comfort.
You are a brave warrior. Wear the 5 stars with integrity, and hold your head up in victory!
You have captured the reality of PTSD with vivid mets
Meta
Metaphor. Weird technology. I hate that you know it so vividly. I resonate with it’s reality