Sometimes being in a human body is too much for me. The bones and flesh feel like a responsibility- and I worry about doing it all wrong.

Sometimes being in a human body is too much for me and I don’t even know.

I disassociate, and not even know.

The reassociation is like the first gasp of air after swimming through a long dark tunnel, asking, “how long was I in there?”

Trauma has been too real for me. I find literature that defines the things I have experienced for years and I’m unsettled by how chronically and deeply my life would be overlapping with complex post traumatic stress disorder.

That it would come and go- absolutely on it’s own terms.

And the meditation and the movement that I came to fall in love with was for a good reason as I learned about regulation and saw that is what I was doing.

But all the meditation and movement in the world doesn’t shield an iron wall away from all the things that started me here.

The abandonment wound does not seep, constantly disorientating me from loss of blood like it used to.

But it does occasionally ache and even trickle onto the floor beneath me.

I’ve seen this before- I’ve walked out of the same doors a hundred times over again

I always walk back in.

I just want to love my family.

But it’s like their just a Christmas nativity scene and I’m looking at it all from above or outside.

I no longer reside there

in any way.

And it hurts and it aches.

Family matters.

Family matters.

Years and years of family matters.