Do You Know What I Hate Most About Abuse? It Makes You “crazy”. It Makes You Angry And Tearful And

A comic about controlling your symptoms and trying to get other people to understand why it’s so hard to do so, in goo form

Can parents stop acting like providing a child’s basic needs is something to be earned? So many kids grow up traumatised because they were made to feel guilty about the existence they never asked for

The only reason I can find not to love you is the fact that you don’t love me. And that still doesn’t make it any goddamn easier. It still doesn’t make me any goddamn stronger.

Poetry At Most

Dear PTSD

You were not who I thought you were.

You did not look the way I thought you looked.

Nor did you smell the same or act the way I expected you to act. PTSD, I thought that you were only your soldiers problem.

I thought that it could only be contracted when in the battlefield.

I thought that you could only come in the night, or only in small movie like flashbacks.

PTSD I did not expect you to look like me when I first saw you.

PTSD I did not expect you to come in the shape of me. PTSD I did not expect you to act like panic attacks, over the smallest littlest things; or strong aversion to people and things,

I did not expect you to look like this.

PTSD looks like sobbing on the floor of my kitchen

Because my father’s voice is so loud in my head

And I can’t move or breath.

Ptsd, you are the most artful shapeshifter

Sometimes you are anger

Or deep deprivatety

Or panic

Or long stretches of insomnia

Sometimes you dress up like sadness

And other days you are nothing

Disappeared

Into thin air like you were never here.

But like darkness growing as the sun goes down

You are always there .

Ptsd, you are not who I thought you are.

I didn’t know I could be hunted by things I can’t remember.

But this is a talent only you can master.

Repressed memories you plant in my head like

Hidden bear traps,

Covered like normal life

Until one wrong step and I’m falling

Falling deeper

Deeper into the darkness

Where you sit,

A reflection of me I do not recall.

Ptsd- when the fuck did you become me?

I suppose I shouldn’t be addressing this poem to you

It’s trauma who is the cause to it all.

But you are the continuous abuser

Even though I am no longer in the battlefield

You keep me on edge.

Even though I am not there you make me feel like I am.

You are salt in the wounds,

You are lemon juice in paper cuts.

Dear ptsd,

When I was diagnosed with you

I cried with relief.

I was just so damn ecstatic have a face and name

To my now constant companion.

I know you’re here for the long haul,

At every corner

Waiting to jump out

Remind me that

Just because you should be safe

Doesn’t mean you are

And that just because you think you can

Trust

Doesn’t mean you should.

“I’m trying really hard to be this person that has her shit together, that has some form of fucking control over anything that has to do with my life. I’m trying really hard not to be so god damn fucking angry at everything. At the world, at myself, at people in my life. I’m trying to mask it all with some point or validation or giving it a mean by saying “this has to happen for a reason. It had to.” But maybe that’s just it, that’s what’s driving me crazy. Maybe there is no reason why bad things happen or good things happen. Maybe there is no reason and it’s just that, a thing that happened. It’s just the universe being cruel and the universe giving you a break once in a while because if we’re being honest there is ALWAYS something. There will always be a time in your life where it feels like bricks are sitting on your chest and there will always be a time after the bricks when the light peaks through one small crack and you have that moment where you don’t feel like you’re drowning and you think “This is it, this is where things get better. This is where I get better.” And it’s true you do get better. You get better every time, but there will never not be a time when there isn’t bricks sitting on your chest and that is what is so goddamn heartbreaking to me. We are born and we suffer and we live and we are happy and sad and everything in between and then we just die. Our bodies go into the ground or get spread out somewhere that was once meaningful to you if your family or friends know you, if you’re lucky. If you’re lucky you might also find love. I’m trying, I’m really trying to find the goddamn crack in the pile of bricks but fuck. What’s the point? What is the god damn point.”

— Wednesday, March 25th, 2020 11:33 pm

“I wish I knew the right words to say when it came down to writing about someone who makes you feel like flowers are growing inside of your chest. I wish I knew how to explain the way you make me feel when it’s two in the morning and we’re both laughing over something that probably wasn’t even that funny but to other people, our laughs make it seem like it was the world. I wish I knew how to tell people just how really beautiful you are, because when you are there, whether you’re laying down or pacing back and fourth, talking about the things that excite you the most, or just about anything in general that makes you happy, your eyes hold a certain kind of light beneath them that makes me want to never look away. Or when you laugh, my god, when you laugh, I never want it to stop because you do this thing where you tilt your head back and cover your mouth at the last moment after you already been so loud, shaking your head and every single time, I’d think, I wouldn’t mind hearing you laugh for the rest of my life. And when you yell, which is very rare, is scary because you can be there, veins standing at attention and I’d still think you’re the most beautiful person I have ever laid eyes on, even if I’m driving you insane. Don’t worry though, you drive me insane too. And I wish I knew how to explain the way my hands shake when I think about losing you, or the way my chest tightens to the thought of you being with someone else who isn’t me, because it messes with my mind sometimes and I get fustrated, because only I want to know your favorite book to the way you hate wearing that poka dot shirt, or how you eat when you’re nervous and can’t seem to stop making a mess. But you always been a messy eater so I don’t mind. I fell in love with you and although you are not perfect because you do have your moments, I promise I will love you again and again and again because I am not perfect either but if I am here, holding my heart out to you, and you are there, doing the same, I swear we both can be non-perfect messes together. And I’m trying not to be too cheesy here, because you always did say I buttered you up too much so for now I’ll leave it off with an I love you and an I’ll love you forever until my very last breath and an I am so lucky you decided to choose me.”

— A.M// to jake, maybe loving you isn’t so bad after all.

“Let someone love you just the way you are - as flawed as you might be, as unattractive as you sometimes feel, and as unaccomplished as you think you are. To believe you must hide of all the parts of you that are broken, out of fear that someone else is incapable of loving what is less than perfect, is to believe that sunlight is incapable of entering a broken window and illuminating a dark room.”

— Marc Hack

“One day, he’s going to know. He’ll know your birthday, your middle name, where you were born, your star sign, and your parent’s names. He’ll know how old you were when you learned to play violin, how your grandparents passed away, how many pets you had, and how much you hated going to school. He’ll know your eye colour, your scars, your laugh lines, and your birthmarks. He’ll know your favourite book, movie, candy, food, pair of shoes, colour, and song. He’s going to know why you wake up in the middle of the night most nights, where you were when you realised you had lost yourself, why you picked up the razor, and how you managed to put it down before things went too far. He’s going to know your phobias, your dreams, your fears, your wishes, and your worries. He’s going to know about your first heartbreak, your dream wedding, and your problems with your mother. He’ll know your strengths, weaknesses, laziness, energy, and your mixed emotions. He’s going to know about your love for all things salted caramel, your dream of being a vet when you were five, your need to sing along to every song you know, and your fears of growing older. He’ll know your bad habits, your mannerisms, your stroppy pout, your facial expressions, and your laugh like it’s his favourite song. The way you chew, drink, walk, sleep, fidget, and kiss. He’s going to know that you’ve already picked out wedding flowers, baby names, tiles for the bathroom, bridesmaid dresses, and the colour of your bedroom walls. He’s going to know, get annoyed at and then accept that you leave clean clothes out for days, get scared ordering at a store, have to organise your DVD’s by genre, and check your horoscope… just in case. He’ll know your McDonald’s order, how you don’t like sugar in your coffee, how many scoops of ice cream you want, and that you don’t like sandwiches unless they’re toasted. He’s going to know how you feel without telling him, when you’re holding in a laugh, and that you’re crying without shedding tears. He’s going to know all of it. Everything. You, from top to bottom and inside out. From learning, from sharing, from listening, from watching. He’s going to know every single thing there is to know, and you know what else? He is still going to love you.”

— He’ll Know / Love

Kiss me in public. Put your arm around me so people know I’m with you. Call me babe in front of our waiter. Pull me in because I’m just not quite close enough to you. Make me watch that one tv show that’s your guilty pleasure. Tell me your biggest fear and I’ll promise to protect you. Kiss me at red lights because if you don’t then I’ll kiss you. Show me the one song you can never listen to without crying. Don’t hide the tiny details about you. Because I’ll remember every one of them.