Trigger Warning: This Post Discusses Sexual Assault & PTSD


PTSD: A Poetic Expression **TRIGGER ALERT**

by KiloMarie Granda, Unspoken Voices


As a victim of rape and with a diagnosis of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, I continue to find myself living in those moments. I continue to find myself plagued by doubt. I continue to find myself locked in that moment.


SO. What. The. Fuck. Is. This. Disorder. That. CONTROLS. My. Every. Moment?

Four years later. I'm still paralyzed by that moment.

Every second is an eternity. Living and Reliving YOUR every second.

Four years = how many seconds?


That’s how many seconds I have been haunted by the ghost of you.

Reliving questions.

            Did I do enough?

                        Why didn’t I do more?

                                    Why didn’t I scream?

                                                Why didn’t I fight you?

Why did I lie there? Cry? Take what I thought was expected of me?

I think… I could have fought back harder. Maybe if I kept screaming? Maybe it would all be okay?

Does this make this my fault? Or does this make it your fault for not acknowledging my cries?

Perhaps it means IT IS YOUR FAULT, but I still blame myself for not doing more to stop it.

I felt helpless, so hopeless. I guess I was used to being on my back and taking what’s due.


Screaming in my head. Fighting you with the strength I knew that I didn’t have. That night, I did what you wanted. I did what I was told. I became the girl you told me to become so that I could survive. That night, I lost pieces of myself. Those pieces became replaced by your demands and your expectations. So many years later and my soul is filled with your voice, my mind is filled with memories I cannot stop. My lover’s hand’s become yours. My doubts become your voice. My nightmares become your dreams. I continue to live in those moments, trying to escape and survive. Trying to do more than survive.

I hate you for what you did and I hate myself for continuing to live my life with that night as the focal point. Everything I do, I do to escape those moments. This memory is a prison that I continually fight to escape. Its been four years and I still live in a fight, flight, or freeze mentality. When will the demons leave? When will YOU leave?

Maybe I am afraid. I have lived with this trauma for so long. Maybe I am afraid of complete healing, because I no longer know life without this pain. Maybe it’s impossible, maybe this prison is more comforting than freedom. Maybe…

I am weak. Or maybe surviving despite the trauma and pain means that. I AM BRAVE. And maybe I am bruised. But you know what? Maybe, this is whom I meant to be.

Maybe, this is me ... and maybe that’s not a bad thing.