PTSD, the black, sterile letters from the screen are screaming. The clock is 13.30, and a dark something has been sliding between our feet, where it slipped past us silently. Light and dark has always been in conflict with each other, so much that the other colors were miffed by coating of the void left after the fight. It’s impossible to win a war that never had the possibility of victory in its programming, impossible to learn something good from something that’s wrong.
Hours pass by relentlessly, and 8 days has gone since I sat in a meeting-room, learning yet again how wrong everything can go, how madness lurks behind every corner of safety. It’s the bomb exploding when you really tried to step at the right places, the unspeakable acts of people who should be your protectors. Trauma strikes before and after you take a breath, it’s real dangers in its unpredictability, in the soft caress of your skin before a slap, the sudden death where life was moments before. When our mind can’t make sense of it, it leaves you grasping for meaning in something that’s just chaos.
Every one of us have their stories, rarely we go through life without feeling pins pricking our skin. Most of it heal and hide the marks, but some wounds bleed again or the needles strike you at another piece of skin. In my work I’ve encountered different kind and types of wounds. Some still bleed their hurt, some of them are on the brink of reopening and some healed the wrong way, and must be healed one more time. People bear them in different ways and on different parts of their bodies, some visible, some under layers of clothes and some covered by make-up. My job is about this healing process, always searching for hidden ones, making sure their healing properly and keeping them free from infections that threaten the organism. It’s even more important for me to be sterile, so that I make sure that I offer a safe haven to open and plaster the wounds.
Life has been stable in its instability the last two weeks. I keep longing for something lost, and having a hard time resisting whispering thoughts trying to tell me there’s hope.
It’s not long since his arms where there, resting over my shoulder. It’s not long since the beats of his heart reached the ear I placed on his chest. It’s not so long since I felt safe there, and I had the feeling that no matter what happened around me, I would be fine, if I just could lay still and hear the thumping sounds of life running through him. To let go of that safety is pain, it’s trusting that I will do the same thing again, with somebody else. Sometimes it’s hard to believe: How do you replace love that you gave everything for? How do you find the energy and will to use it once again? It’s not that I think somebody else is the only was to happiness, more that I know how good it can be to really love someone and being loved in return. I have so much to give and I hope somebody out there will awake the possibility of me releasing it again.