Trauma + Healing Stories
Empowerment + Validation + Support for Trauma Survivors, one story at a time.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Louder I follow the beat, one tick at a time with slow breathes to calm my chest.
I am not calm yet but I am now centered.
It is 11:11 and the third panic attack of the morning has set in. But here I am, ankles crossed and legs bare on the bathroom tile.
Leaning my weight against the wall, nestled in the nook between shower and door.
This is my place of solitude, here in the bathing room -----> where my thoughts bounce around and come to a halt as they ricochet off mattress walls to ease my anxiety down.
My trauma does not reach me here very often, so this is where I go to find peace.
I never did do well with meditation music or counselors voices.
Between the irritating tones and sound waves of relaxation that everyone else seems to enjoy, I would hear nails to a chalkboard and a condescending tone.
PTSD makes it hard for me to remember things in order.
My mind is often like a jigsaw and I have to unscramble the 4000 plum pieces to decipher where my feelings come from.
I could get lost in a 3 hour roam around target, not for the pretty dresses or cutlery sets ----> but the way my mind loses track of time all together in wide open spaces.
Nothing brought more chaos and pleasure than walking aimlessly around malls when I had deep anxiety and depression.
The fact that I had no real direction or thing to drive home with felt synonymous with my swinging moods.
And the sea of strangers that scattered about made me feel like I was not alone, while at the same time providing no single intimate moment where I would have to dig up a boundary or conquer a trigger.
Time was a weird thing.
Perhaps because I was never allowed to own time, being told where to be indefinitely ---> and that was usually my room.
It could have been minutes or hours, or months, of solitude from evening til morning every day that kept me blinded to the clock.
Lack of play dates or outings unless I was locked out on purpose.
And in those times when I fell into the wind, I had everywhere and nowhere to be til whatever time.
How much does time really matter when your personality is stifled down by trauma?
When day after day after year, you only know that the abuse is timely?
The one consistent tick is the utter dissatisfaction your parent has with your existence...
When you have PTSD you evade time in ways others just don't understand.
In one moment, you are there just staring beyond the dinner plate ---> and in the next blink, you are a 10 year old with nails tightly gripping your thighs and tears streaming down your face as the THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. Of the stomping feet and the furniture crashing down to the ground startle you.
And in the next, you hear a voice that is no longer familiar but very much real. Telling you that you are ungrateful and unworthy of the things that you have. That you did nothing to earn them and you should have it all taken away.
Right back into sipping your water and shakily chewing your chicken, taking extra small bites as to not need seconds.
PTSD can be really subtle, this time traveling between moments and emotions.
It can present itself as calmness, being collected or just sleepy. It can look like a smirk and kind eyes, with a tight grip on the thighs under the table where no one can see.
PTSD makes it hard to wear a watch.
In fact, I always hated them.
Hated schedules and deadlines and calendars, without a clear reason why.
So I recently made a decision, against every fiber of my being, to use a gift card and buy a watch.
I consciously made the decision to step into the present.
I decided, in 2020, I want to master time.
Somehow, listening to the Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. has become therapeutic from the moment I first wrapped the silicone band around my wrist and pulled the tab off pause.
Now when I feel like my mind is about to leave, I focus on the ticks and all other noises just fall away.
Like a metronome.
I picture a heaviness in my wrist that anchors me to the present, and travels like a warmth through my veins within my entire body.
Hot lead, filling me up and telling me it is safe to stay.
J.S. Jaded Savior
J.S. Trauma + Healing Stories
A collective of stories about Trauma + Healing, to promote awareness, validation and support for Trauma Survivors.
Content mention of Rape, Abuse, Neglect, Addictions, Mental Illness, Kidnap, Molestation, Child abuse, Teen Pregnancy, Abortion, birth, body image, gender/identity dysphoria, sexuality, personal trauma, domestic violence and other extremely personal stories. Please practice caution. I am not a licensed physician or mental health professional. No medical prescribing is provided on this site, Only personal insights, experience stories, and advice; All stories published have had prior authorization.
Jean Grey is a pen name that I use across socials and as a writer at my own discretion. Jean is my birth name and Grey is a symbolic addition I chose for significance to my identity.
Questions? Contact Jean at: firstname.lastname@example.org
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