Friday, June 10, 2011

Dark Passenger

I died eight years, seven months, and eighteen days ago.
 There was no funeral. No eulogy was spoken, no obituary made it to the papers. My headstone was not engraved, or even purchased. No phone calls made, no friends were ever contacted. That's what happens when your death is not physical.
In a forever life altering moment where the floor leaves your feet and you feel your soul get blown to pieces, there is not much you can do when you feel your life slip from your hands and leave your body. It happens so quickly and I wish, painlessly, yet it was anything but. Someday I will share the circumstances, but not now. not yet.
I wish I could say I hung on for dear life when it happened, but I didn't. I let me go without a fight or even a last glance, with not even a farewell, just a silent release.
It has taken years to find a solid spot to stand on, and try to rebuild a soul.
But, how does one do that?
If you find out, please let me know.
I am better now, and have learned to live a new normal, but if you listen closely, you will hear the wind whip through the gaping holes where I once was.
I have been diagnosed with having PTSD, my dark passenger. I've worked so hard to get here, to be this functional, and by the grace of god, most days I can manage. I have built an army inside that constantly checks the perimeter of memories and hold the walls so I can go about my day.  The dark passenger knows this army well, well enough to sense weak spots where in one dark opportune moment, it comes rushing in, guns blazing. I can be in the supermarket, washing my hair, about to go to sleep, chatting with a friend, and a word, a smell, or a sound will trigger that dark passenger to come steal my breath. I feel it reach deep into my chest from behind and fling me backwards in time to get close enough for me to hear it's throaty whisper " Hey, remember me?"
In the moments that follow, I can breath in, but I can't breathe out. A memory is struggled with and my heart doesn't pound, but instead gallops at a nauseating speed. I feel I could throw up, but never do. The air around me is static and noises are either muffled, or amplified depending on the depth of panic. My eyes dart around, but can't seem to focus, not on things, but on the now.
It used to take hours to come down from this, and sometimes it still does, but my army I love, and feel proud to have built it. Every day, battle wear is donned, swords are sharpened, troops are assembled and a war is fought to protect the fragile new person inside. After one fatality, she is worth the fight, and one day, this battle will be won.
Since we are sharing, tell me, what do your armies fight for?

This is her fight stance. I like it so much, I think I might borrow it.

1 comment:

  1. You are a strong woman, Marla. I am in awe of you.
    Your words give me goosebumps. Thank you for opening up to us. I imagine it must be hard. Keep up the good work, my dear friend.