trauma

At its core, trauma can be thought of as the psychological wounds that persist, even when the physical ones are long gone.

What is Load Bearing?
Load-bearing. I’ve seen this term come up time and again within different contexts. Some are simply about how to correctly assemble the structure of a building with strong foundations so that it can withstand enormous loads. Other articles, particularly about emotional load-bearing, talk of the disproportionate amounts of mental and emotional labour women in heterosexual couples have to bear when they find themselves running an entire household on their own, despite putting in the same amount of hours at work as their male counterpart.
By Outrageous Optimism 4 years ago in Psyche
Please stop harming and killing Native Women
I am a Hawaiian woman. This means that I am a Native Woman. All over the world and for many generations there has been a no-longer-silent-but-not-a-lot-has-been-done-to-STOP the violence against us global campaign.
By Roxanne Cottell4 years ago in Psyche
The Cure
It all started in 2016. That was the year that changed everything, it was the in between period of my first and second year of college, my 19th year of life, and the year that gave me my biggest emotional scar. Since then, I've just been fumbling through my life. It's like that episode of FRIENDS where they throw a ball around for hours but won't let Chandler play because "he's a dropper", and then it shows all of the times where Chandler has dropped or broken things. Well, that's me. I'm Chandler Bing.
By Kaylee Anderson5 years ago in Psyche
Blossoming Into Me
I was in second grade when my parents decided something was wrong with me. I was strapped to an EEG and had completely convinced myself that what they were really doing was reading my mind. I tried like hell to control my thoughts and try not to expose my deepest secrets that only a 2nd grader would possess. I am aware now that what they were doing was monitoring my brain waves to see how active my mind was while reclined in a chair. Hint hint: Patient I was not.
By Theresa Wilhelm5 years ago in Psyche
Learning to live by trying to die
I was 9 years old the first time I tried to die. My beloved Uncle Tony had died at 42 from kidney failure. I had loved and worshipped him. He was the only person who spoke to me as if I were a person, not a nuisance. He would engage me in riddles and puzzles . He was the only one who told me that I was very smart and to never stop learning . He would envelop me in hugs that enveloped all of me and made me feel incredibly safe. Nothing could hurt me while I was with him. I was convinced he was the only person who cared about me.
By Bella Blue5 years ago in Psyche
Play A Little Game
There was a lot of trauma in my early childhood. My parents divorced, I was moved away from my friends and lost contact with all but two of my friends from my hometown due to my mother’s manipulation and vindictiveness, I was severely bullied in school for being Neurodivergent (even if people didn’t know I was Neurodivergent at the time), and the cat that practically raised me died. I contribute all that happening around the same time to my early onset depression that I was diagnosed with at the tender age of eight. But as for my PTSD, that’s a partly a whole other story.
By Elsa M5 years ago in Psyche
Sunchild
Let’s start from the beginning. I have no childhood memories with my mom before the age of 5; at least to my remembrance. My siblings and I were placed in the Department of Family and Children Services. My brother, Titus and I went to a foster home on the west side of Atlanta. I was a little over two years old. We continued to reside there for the next 4-5 years. We shared the home with 7-8 children at a time sometimes.
By Orianna Sanders5 years ago in Psyche
Forged by Fire and Rubble
I've heard artists talk about how certain pieces they've made are meant to evoke walking through the rubble of your own life. That's poetic, isn't it? But, have you every actually walked through the rubble of your own life? I have. The moments, in retrospect, can indeed be poetic imagery. However, in the moment, I could not think about beauty. All I could think about was the savage nature of chaos, loss, and trying to find my grandmother's ashes. When that failed, I wanted to see if I could find something, anything, that I could salvage.
By Mimi Sonner5 years ago in Psyche
Soap and Water
My brother was sick. I didn't know exactly what was wrong with him. I heard the word "cancer" mentioned, so I assumed that was it. He didn't look well at all. He was extremely thin and kind of yellowish-looking with bruises all over his face. His name was Tom, and he was eighteen years my senior. It was 1989. I was 10 years old.
By Heather Cumbo5 years ago in Psyche
Stuck
So I am working on healing myself. Writing more poems. Working on this blog. Trying to be okay in a marriage when I have more trust issues than a wild animal backed into a corner. I don't know why I let myself get into another relationship. I thought I was ready I really did. I worked on myself. I stayed single. He wore me down with sweet words and trying to get to know the real me. I thought I had made sure he was ready for the hot mess that was my psyche. He wasn't. No one ever really could be really. I don't know why I believed him. Something about wanting to get to know my soul.....Cheesy I know but I was so hopeful. I really wanted to be with him. He had tried to get a date for a year. I kept putting him off. Telling him I was dating when I wasn't just to keep myself safe from another painful letdown. But somehow here I am.
By Melissa Wilson5 years ago in Psyche
Awareness
People used to ask me “What changed you? What happened in your life that made you realize you only have yourself?” When I was thirteen years old someone in my family sexually assaulted me. When I was that age I had no clue what sexual assault was. I just knew afterwards I was never the same. A few days after the situation happened I was starting to crave the feeling again. I was so confused as to why I was fiending for it. I knew it hurt the first time, but it was something about it that made it so thrilling. It was something about sex that had me addicted to it. When I turned 14 I started to have sex again, but this time it was with people from my school. Yes, I said people, as in more than one. At that age I really wasn’t aware of the dangers of sexual transmitted diseases or sexually transmitted infections. I had no clue it was serious enough that it could kill me, so at that age I was having sex with anyone I wanted to have sex with. I didn’t have my first real relationship until I turned 16, so I was just going around giving up something that was so sacred and precious. I had to find out on my own about the dangers of sex. I never took it seriously until I caught a STI. At the age of 15 I realized I was a sex addict. It was like that was the only thing I wanted to do. For a long time I hated myself. I didn't know what was wrong with me. I didn’t know how to heal from getting raped, I didn’t know who to talk to because my mom used to tell my business to her friends, so I never wanted to tell her anything. When I got raped the first person I told was my sister. My sister told my mom and that’s how she found out, but then she went and told a whole bunch of people. At the time I didn’t know how wrong my mom was, but something in me didn’t trust her for a reason. When I really needed my mom she wasn’t there, but she was there when she wanted to be. She was always caught up in her relationships. She was always caught up with her other family members. It felt like she only cared about me when she felt like it. Growing up I really had to learn how to communicate my feelings on my own, I had to learn how to say no to sexual activities, and I had to learn who I was on my own. My whole life I was alone. This is not a bad thing and it’s certainly not the worst thing in the world because I got through it. I’ve learned from it and I apply a lot of what I learned to my daily life. I realize self love comes before anything and anyone else. I now know I shouldn’t allow anyone to touch me in that way if they don’t genuinely care about me.
By Nala5 years ago in Psyche
Hospital
The first night and the last night I was admitted to a mental institution were 8 years apart. The first night was a crumbled piece of lined paper, streaked with pencil smudges and the edges still ripped from the notebook. I still see my sister sitting in the waiting room for me, as she always did, attached to my side and my partner in crime. The last night was an officer dragging me from my front door, without a bra and waving with a kitchen knife swollen wrist.
By Nicole Cafarelli5 years ago in Psyche