#traumaposting

[ballofstress9]

"You're so mature for your age"

Thanks! I have experienced a rough childhood full of bullying, depression and suicidal tendencies and I'm still dealing with the after effects which lead me to mature up quick so i didnt have to depend on others and close myself off since the thought of someone hurting me is still giving me panic attacks :)

[rimonoroni2]

sometimes terrible horrible things will irreversibly alter who you are and despite everything else and despite the way it feels, sometimes it’s okay that you’re different now. it is. it’s okay

[mechanicalmonarchbutterfly]

Surviving is all you owe yourself.

You are here, so you survived.

You are here, so you can survive.

You are here, so you will survive.

You are here. You are a survivor.

All you need to do is survive.

[glittergroovy]

[ohwolfling]

so crazy that after you survive child abuse you have to spend the rest of your life surviving what it made your brain and body into and unfortunately a lot of the time healing one doesn't translate into healing the other. i really think that any documentation of abuse or neglect outside of maybe exclusively "poverty led to a lack but this child was loved with every resource they had," parents should be financially on the hook FOREVER for anything from psychiatry to physical therapy to fucking lost wages. there is nothing anyone can do that replaces what it means to be supported as a child and to successfully keep pace with what capitalism demands of you in your teens and twenties. and yes, better access and less stigma re: mental health would help this, making society as a whole more accessible to all kinds of disability across the board would help, but I also just...

it is too fucking easy to torture your children into brain damage. all the victim blaming in the world, all the bootstraps, all the there's never any reason for violence in this world, but abused children are never, ever allowed to hold anyone accountable. there is nothing but consequence for being abused as a child, and part of my imperfect fantasy is that abusers might have to know even a little bit, even monetarily, how fucking shitty and exhausting that is.

[pinewoodpriestess]

"Mirror Image."

I looked in the mirror today.

Tried to convince myself that it was fine.

That the dark inkwells beneath my eye were normal.

I didn't look too closely, out of fear of noticing.

The pallid grey tones, adipocere, and necrotising scars that marr the unwilling corpse that is me.

Eyesocket drooling pus down the left side of my face as I sigh to my reflection.

At least I can't smell it anymore, my sense of smell long gone by now.

It's been this way since I was a child.

Born of death but unable to die.

Just a pile of rotting carrion that all else fail to see.

The crows know it, the detrivores know it, I know it, everyone else is holding their nose and willfully blind.

I was born with little chance of living.

The odds of being born alive were a literal coin toss.

Kept in incubation, a sickly dying fawn, life snatched out of the jaws of death herself.

They butchered that same fawn, cut out her entrails.

"unlikely to make it" they muttered to each other... "infantile septic shock" was the diagnosis.

The angels that were there that night tried to keep a stillborn warm... one small miracle in a cavalcade of disease and suffering

They should have let me die, do not resuscitate, a child cried into the nothingness.

They did so anyways, kept a flickering flame going.

A flame and a spark that will one day burn it all down, a black flame born of stillness and death.

The miracle that became me, a putrifying flesh puppet tugged along by cadaveric spasms and the writhing beneath its skin.

A half-dead half-living decomposing beast who should've been granted the mercy of a quicker end than this.

But there is no mercy for one such as I, no atonement to be found, no cure to this affliction that is life.

I am animated by rage and heartbreak.

A bloated putrefacted avatar of hate and misery.

My chest roars, it burns bright like a furnace.

The flaring of my heart and the aching of my lungs.

It keeps me going, grasping for anything, the dead keep walking eternally without rest.

I am already dead, my soul a swirling void of rot and decay, simply waiting for the body to play catch up.

I pray to the Gods, a last request... I no longer want to be alone in this undeath... one more miracle before I take my place in death.

[sleepy-bebby]

[moondadpoems]

contrary to what poets say,

the pain

isn’t pretty,

gut-gnawing ache

underlying every smile.

just hide the holes

in your heart with

that grin

‘til you’re patched up

for now;

‘til the quiet overtakes

the need to cry.

my foundation’s

cracked to hell, but

fuck it,

I refuse to miss

another single sunset,

another winking crescent moonrise

hiding behind these pathetic

excuses for walls.

tear me down

and put me back together again,

whatever it takes,

because this plaster shit

ain’t gonna cut it.