From my very first post here, I’ve written about how trauma has shaped my life.
Since before my first breath, I suffered the effects of violence from within my mother’s womb. This wired my nervous system in very particular ways even before I endured my first direct bodily blow.
I don’t write much about many of the specific blows I experienced. Most the specifics are lost to my thinking memory, stored instead in muscle, bone, and implicit memory.
Because most the specifics are lost to my thinking memory, I can be triggered–catapulted back in time, so that I’m confused about whether I’m in relatively choice-filled 2020 or choiceless 1988–without knowing why. Without knowing what sent me back.
A couple of days ago, my sister Rachael wrote “Meringue Pie & PTSD.” Continue reading “each other”
There’s a cicada husk in a very, very tiny jar on my dresser.
If this sounds odd, it is. It’s also, given a very particular set of circumstances, an incredibly sweet reminder:
My mom lived, and her living could be such strange fun.
On March 4, I posted “The Magic of Fighting Monsters.” I wrote about the absolute magic I’d experienced fighting monsters in an immersive theatre show a couple years prior.
That show had connected me to the experience of being with my living, breathing, horror-loving mom; in those moments about which I wrote, she was very much alive
to with me. Continue reading “strange, sweet reminders”
A few days ago, I noticed a hummingbird flitting around my backyard. I told my husband, who said she’s built a nest in her same old spot.
Same old spot? Somehow, I’d never once noticed what was, to Anthony, a predictable part of life at this house.
He pointed out the teacup-sized nest of twigs and feathers, nestled in a rosebush right at my eye level.
This morning, I saw the hummingbird darting all around the backyard. I wondered if there was life in her nest.
Sure enough, I soon saw tiny twin triangles of orange peeking over its top. Without getting too close, I snapped a shot or two on my phone.
Soon enough, the mom returned to her baby, perching protectively at nest’s edge. I snapped a couple shots of this, too–this time, from a greater distance so as to not send her flying too soon. Continue reading “young life”