No sé cómo atreverme. Escribir aquí de pronto me da algo de miedo. No es que no tenga muchas cosas que escribir, pero es tiempo que dedicarles y una vez sacadas las palabras, y expuestas no solamente a mí (un secreto, las palabras que no decimos, que no escribimos, que no registramos) sino a otres...
(un silencio, gritos sin respuesta en una quebrada, la inmensidad y tú, ¿quién te está mirando, quién te está escuchando, [quién me está leyendo]? ¿Quién es mi testigo, quién es mi juez?)
...sino a otres (ya no es secreto, es algo que se muestra), entonces ¿qué pasará con mis palabras?
Tengo cosas que decir, personales. No quiero molestar mucho con ellas. Tampoco quiero hablarlas con un profesional. Quiero quitármelas rápidamente y dejarlas ahí, en alguna parte acumulando polvo. Me han estado aplastando la cabeza hace un rato y ya siento que emocionalmente no aguanto más.
Todo empieza con que siempre he temido el momento de irme nuevamente. Me angustia pensar que me iré, siempre me ha angustiado. Cuando veía el final de mis estudios veía también el final de la vida que había recuperado con mi mamá, y me angustiaba año a año tener que irme en algún momento. Probablemente un profesional dirá algo así como que tiene que ver con la separación (No me digas...), no lo dirán pero tiene que ver también con el apego inseguro... Y en fin, no hay mucho que agregar.
Salvo los detalles.
Y es esto lo que, obviamente, no quiero compartir con un profesional sino con posibles testigos. Quizá estoy exagerando con mis palabras, pero quiero decirlas así porque no puedo sencillamente ignorarlo.
Hay muchos niveles de detalles [y por qué cresta le estoy haciendo introducción a esta weá si estoy apurade y no es un fanfic!!! Al punto y a dormir] a esta historia, y me centraré específicamente en uno pequeño que en sí abarca muchas weás (trabas) mías.
Cuando veo niñes no puedo evitar notar lo pequeñes que son, y acto seguido, agregar para mí “sólo tienen [x] años... Yo era muy pequeñe también...”.
El día en que me llevaron, no me había despedido de mis cosas, ni de mi casa... Creo, pero no sabría recordar con precisión y definitivamente no quiero corroborar esta información, que no me despedí de mi mamá tampoco. Ella estaba en [XXX XXXXX]. Esa mañana yo sentí que algo andaba mal, que algo estaba pasando o iba a pasar. No recuerdo si nos avisaron antes de irnos a clases, pero creo que no, que fue de sorpresa. Todas las versiones que conozco dicen que fue de sorpresa [lo odio tanto cómo fue capaz de hacerme algo así]. Fuimos al colegio y en medio de las clases mi abuela, la madre de mi padre, nos retiró. Recuerdo a una compañera, la [XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX], echando a llorar. No sé si me despedí de mis compañeres. Si lo hice, no fue de la manera que corresponde cuando no les volverás a ver.
Mi abuela detuvo el auto frente al juzgado de familia del pueblo. Una compañera y su mamá nos dieron alcance y me regalaron unos libros, si mal no recuerdo. Fue muy corto. Luego de eso, mi abuela nos llevó a la ciudad, donde mi padre.
No recuerdo mucho de los días siguientes. No sé si recuperé mis cosas... Y de haberlo hecho no sé cuánto se tardaron. No logro recordar con exactitud qué cosas recuperé o me llevé con los años, ya algo más grande, y qué cosas no.
Pero incluso sin recordarlo... No puedo ignorar lo feo que suena eso. Que me sacaran en medio de mi clase, que no me pudiese despedir de mis amigos, de mis compañeros, de mi familia, de mi casa, de mis mascotas, de mi pieza y de mi cama, ni del bosque. De mi mamá. No me pude despedir de mi mamá. Que me hiciesen dejar atrás mis pertenencias, mis libros, mis juguetes, mi ropa... Que sin aviso y de un minuto al siguiente me sacaran de todo lo que era mi mundo, en el que estaba creciendo, donde tenía un lugar que me correspondía y que era mío...
Suena a secuestro. Suena a secuestro exitoso. Y eso de por sí, sin ahondar en otros niveles de detalle, ya de por sí es horrible.
Y es por eso por lo que pienso que me da tanto miedo esa *gesto con las manos de abarcar cosas* abstracción que es la separación y el enlazarla al miedo (ilógico) de que perderé Todo. ¿Estoy curade ya?
👀 Describe your OC through the eyes of another person!
went a little wild with this and made it a whole thing lmao. hope it's as enjoyable to read as it was to write :)
You saw her from across the room.
Her eyes cut across the crowd like the well-aimed beam of a phaser, finding their mark with deadly precision. Something in her gaze -- the fierce intensity behind those emerald irises -- stole your very breath away. She hovered there for a moment that crackled with electricity and then, those fiery eyes keeping you rooted to the spot, turned toward you and began her unhurried approach, gliding her way through the crowd in way that called to mind a stalking panther securing her prey.
As she grew closer you could make out her features more clearly: silken black hair, arranged in an elegant, twisting avant-garde updo; almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones, a sharp jaw and pointed chin; beautifully toned biceps and calves that peeked out from between the slit of her sleek black dress on each graceful step. The slit opened perhaps a tad wider than necessary for the formality of this event, and her neckline plunged perhaps a bit too deep; but it also revealed the presence of an intriguing scar that cut jaggedly across her chest and disappeared under the fabric, and before she'd even spoken a word to you, you wanted to know more.
Several flirtatious comments, a few drinks, and one relocation to your quarters later, you got the chance.
You'd barely begun to undress her, however, when it became clear something was very wrong. Like a swell of nausea some dreadful sensation washed over you, and quite suddenly your body felt a hundred times its own weight, the effort of movement or speech far too insurmountable to even attempt. Your hands fell from her chest; your head lolled back against the pillow. Vera slipped away.
Before passing out, you watch with eyes heavy-lidded as she casually slips her dress back over her shoulders and sets to work locating what she came for. The lockbox containing the sensitive data rods she seeks proves hardly a challenge at all and she slips them easily into her purse; one last cursory glance brings her verdant eyes back to yours and the last thing you see, as consciousness fades, is the smirk of self-satisfaction that stretches across one corner of her plump, painted lips.
You saw her at the bar.
It took you a minute to realize why she felt so familiar, why you thought you recognized those Eastern-European features and that casually graceful yet coolly disinterested demeanor. She was passing the time sitting back and watching, just sipping at her Alvanian brandy and casting silent judgment over the rest of the patrons, and it reminded you fleetingly of -- that's it!
You grab your glass and head her way.
"Don't I know you?" you venture, plopping into the seat beside her. She regards you with a raised eyebrow, wearing an expression as if something mildly unpalatable has just wandered its way onto her plate.
Her voice is low, and smooth, and rich with the promise of something you can't have -- which only makes you want it more. The sound of it is familiar as the sight of her face and solidifies your hunch; excitedly, you hurry to share.
"We went to the Academy together! Class of '65. You were in my Xenobiology course, always sat way in the back. Whip-smart but super quiet."
Her hand tightens around her glass, but she says nothing.
"Lydia, right? I think that was it. You probably don't remember me, I'm--"
"You must have me mistaken for someone else," she interjects coldly, and then, standing, downs the rest of her brandy and sets the glass down with a thud. She doesn't meet your eyes before turning to leave. "My name is Vera."
You didn't see her at all.
The facility was aware of the breach -- everyone was on alert -- but no one had been remotely successful at narrowing down the search. She'd scrambled the sensors, jammed the comms, dodged every patrol; each time it seemed your team had finally tracked and cornered her, she'd simply vanish -- slipping through your fingers like smoke.
At this point it seemed the only wise choice was to secure the perimeter. It was a jungle planet; no craft could land within several kilometers of the compound and so long as your transporter-jamming signal was still operational, she certainly wasn't beaming anywhere. So, it followed, she would escape through the trees.
Your instincts proved correct.
Near the infrequently-patrolled west end of the complex, hidden beside an abandoned building, awaited her steed: a Koraxan salamander with a chest the size of a barrel and scales black as night. You almost hadn't spotted it in the darkness. It, luckily, hadn't spotted you, and you quietly retreat to a safe vantage point -- phaser rifle trained on the shifting shadows of the jungle, sweeping for a target.
You fail to find it before the blade of her throwing knife finds your throat.
You saw her at her worst.
She entered your office like most clients do: cautious, mistrusting, resentful at having to be there at all. It's understandable; no one enjoys having to attend mandatory therapy. Less so the brand of clientele you handle. But someone has to do the dirty work of cleaning up the psychological messes Section 31 leaves behind, and for the last twenty years that someone has been you.
She lowered herself into the armchair like it was booby-trapped. She feigned nonchalance, forced her hands to still in her lap, alternated between avoiding your gaze and holding it challengingly.
"I'm fine," she insisted, "really."
But forty minutes later, her eyes are puffy and red, her cheeks tear-stained, her posture crumpled. She speaks between shuttering sobs.
"How do I -- tell him -- how do I admit -- I miss it? Ke-eevan hurt me -- violated me -- why do I want it back so badly?"
She stares at you with eyes imploring, begging for the answer she desperately hopes you can give her.
Unfortunately there’s no way you can know how you’re going to feel day to day , hour to hour. You can go to bed on baseline pain and wake up in a raging flare through no fault of your own.Crps is not a text book disease it follows its own rules and is forever moving the goal posts . People that are fighting with Chronic Pain continually feel like they are being judged or criticised, usually by people who have never experienced or lived thru the battles we face daily . Again and again people keep telling us what we should or shouldn’t be doing or feeling .It can become overwhelming and seem like everyone in your life has an opinion about how you should be coping or where you should be at. They may be tired of hearing about chronic pain,but we-people living with chronic pain are even more tired of living with it .
I’ll probably have a full, like, Reaction (of sorts) to how this book treats trauma and recovery because it almost exactly hits on some fun, familiar points in the sense of “If this is your idea of recovery, oh my god I do not want it?”
But I just had the thought that probably sums up so many of the problems: The main, main character... is not traumatised?
Even this far, 60% through the book, he hasn’t had a single even slightly negative or doubting thought about the cult or anything he has gone through. No real ongoing effects of anything along the lines of flashbacks to the, you know, horrific pain he’s presumably gone through at times but sometimes gets off on, so, you know, how convenient that the cult has someone like him. He is literally not even physically traumatised because he has (100% effective) healing spells.
The worst is a certain degree of asceticism that... hasn’t even given him any angst whatsoever. No anxiety about “Maybe I’m being corrupted already? Am I doing something Wrong?” The only time it’s even ever stopped him has had to do with sex, and feels about on the same potential level as “Maybe I shouldn’t cheat on my boyfriend who I still ostensibly have” rather than “I am Bad for even having these thoughts.” You know, those sorts of thoughts that are super common with religious trauma?
His past makes him unfamiliar with certain references or technologies, but otherwise does not affect his functioning at all. It comes off like Szpara thinks that trauma means “not knowing what Harry Potter is.” (Also, sidenote, Szpara please stop referencing Harry Potter. It is awkward and you are trans.)
How do you screw this up this badly in your book About Trauma lmao.
“I feel loss… I hate that I am weak, and tired, and in #pain each day. I can’t stand the limitations in my life… I feel that I let people down all the time…and that is hard to accept. Because I know I am trying my hardest.”
This week has been long and intense, and it's not even close to over.
I had therapy on Tuesday and it went pretty well for the first time in a while. I was able to be present and connect with her on what I want to be working on, and where I'm at right now in terms of recovery especially in terms of my SH/SI and PTSD symptoms. We talked about where I want to be and she assured me that I wasn't broken or alone or hopeless, that she has hope for me that I could hold onto for now, that she is here in this with me.
Wednesday I saw my doctor in-person for the first time in months. I've been having a lot of medical problems recently, and my doctor still thinks my medical symptoms are stemming from my PTSD and dissociation. While I can validate that this would make sense, something has been so wrong with my body for almost two years now. I have every symptom of POTS and a random spew of neurological symptoms and I'm tired of everyone telling me how my body feels. I intuitively know something is wrong.
Today in therapy I was able to open up a little about my most recent (trauma). I started to dissociate a bit toward the end of our conversation but she helped bring me back and calm me down enough to end the video call. I think I have been making progress as far as connecting better with my therapist. I am actually starting to trust a therapist for once? I look forward to seeing therapy and seeing her and therapy is the only thing that feels safe to me right now.
I am going to journal in a bit to process everything from the last three days. My mental health is literally trash right now (like I should probably be on a locked psychiatric ward trash) and I need something to change soon, because none of this feels like healing to me. It feels like drowning.
Why wasnt I enough? Enough for yoy to change, enough for you to love me? I wasn't enough for you, pr for anyone since. They either hate me or replace me. And the question is, is it really all my fault? I mean, my own mother called me a monster. Some part of me believed it.
I miss feeling whole. I miss not feeling like all I had is the surety that people are bad. I suppose in the end, it all comes back to my inability to accept any explanation you give me on why you did it. Am I really so bad that you had to rid the world of your daughter? Would you have killed me if you felt you could get away with it? How badly did you hate your own flesh and blood?
I dont remember what it means to exist. I've forgotten while forcing myself to seem human. I am not human. I am some sort of amalgamation of everything you called me. My skin is made of your hand prints. I cannot escape the monster you made me.
relations: must already be super close with him
verse: human / hunter / shadow.hunter
A side of himself he’d rather not let anyone else see if he could help it. Rushed out of the shared establishment before he could even bother to let the other know he had to leave. The fact that he barely escaped the crowded area due to the simple sighting of his disowned brother. Vivid memories intruded his thoughts, clouded his judgement and became briefly forgetful of his surroundings. He wasn’t sure which one was worse, when he experienced his night terrors or these. The one thing he desperately needed was space.
Quickly rested his back to the wall of the building he let himself out of. His hands shook as he clasped them upon his thighs, the heat began to rise and the hyperventilating was the part he dreaded the most. Even more so for the other to see him this way — as he viewed it: weak, all he could do was shoot them an attempted death glare to not test him now. If he knew better, the thing he needed the most was a distraction from this.
7 years. It’s been 7 years since we last saw eachother. Since we last talked. You left me. You abandoned me. You were like a mother to me. Like an older sister. Where did you go all those years? Did he do the things he promised? He must not have if you’re with someone new now. You have me replaced. With someone my same age. She even has my name! And yet you’ve never spoken to me. We talked yesterday. You sounded happy. You have two stepdaughters and a husband and a new born. So you must be happy. You must be. And this feels so selfish to say in the face of that joy you have that I could hear even over a phone.. it is so so selfish of me.. but what about me? When will I get my happiness? It just feels like pain. Like silver glinting in the bathroom light. Like ruby red down the sink. I have not done that. But I think about it. It is so horrible and selfish of me but I want that release. In the stories and in the words of others it is such a rush. It is an outlet for those feelings that they can’t get out. That are trapped inside your chest and knocking on your ribs trying to get out. I want it out.