I need to make notes to help myself remember that the traumaversary doesn't end right as the ritual dates conclude. I seem to always forget that often the worst part, emotionally, is the day after. Or days. The emotional hangover after the relived horrors is also a relived horror. It is traumaversary material too. Maybe this is what I need to "cope ahead" for.
I forget that this is often the hardest part to survive. I seem to always think that there will be some relief...that it's behind me now. That maybe things can proceed more normally now. Maybe that comes later? I don't recall. But it doesn't come right away. First, I have to get through the shock. The shock of getting through something brutal and turning around and seeing the carnage behind you. The carnage you didn't have space and time to process as it was occurring. So it just hits you now. It hits like a punch to the gut that takes your breath away.
Then, the despair. The howling, violent despair. The despair fueled by the unfathomable betrayals that led to you being in this position in the first place. It's shattering. It turns you into broken shards. Your will to live is sapped from you, sapped in the same way they sapped your life-energy out of you during their sadistic torture marathon. The exhaustion is without words. It seeps into your marrow and can't be rooted out, making each bone, each limb, weigh as much as the entire ocean.
And then, what makes it even harder to survive is that the world keeps going. Everyone keeps moving around you, their daily flow of life unimpeded by your earth shattering devastation. You have been torn apart, ravaged, broken down the seams; your heart was ripped out as they forced you to stomp on it; you lost yourself, you died, you descended into hell, evil consumed you until you wished to be completely extinguished...but to everyone else, it's just a Monday.
Which then just reignites the cycle of stunned, dazed shock leading to collapse and despair. You're alone. You lived through hell and now you're alone. No one cares, no one sees, no one bats an eye. It's just a Monday. You have to be normal. You can't draw attention. You can't let anyone know. You can't ask for help. You can't rest. You can't heal. You can't cry. Yes, of course it feels unsurvivable. Yes, of course you want to die. The terror of dying that filled Friday night is replaced with a desperate longing for the excruciating nightmare to end.
I know that those are "old" feelings. Which is why I said at the start that this Monday is part of the traumaversary too. The aftermath is some of the worst trauma, I think. The aloneness is the unsurvivable part. It's supposed to be the part that's different now in the present. I know in many ways it is different. We saw E today. We can talk to our wife. To friends. It's not enough. It still holds true that for everyone else it's just another Monday. Wife and friends have been working all day. Etc. And drawing attention to myself is a mortal sin on its own (the programming lie). The battle between seeking comfort and avoiding backlash always rages.
And there are too many of us. Too many who need comfort. Too many who are horrified beyond words, frozen in overwhelm, paralyzed by unspeakable shock and terror. Everyone needs something. There's not enough. I'm too tired. I'm so tired. Counting the years since this has happened in the outer world is of no comfort when your body is still wracked with violent physical flashbacks, night after night, year after year. Where is the relief? When is it coming? The line between now and back then feels too thin. It feels like drowning.
