Author: Kris

Writing for recovery, and to help raise awareness of SA, SI, CPTSD, and chronic illness <3

The Rough in a Diamond

What if I could show you everything? Would you leave then? Would you hate me? Would you see me the way I’ve always seen myself? The way I’ve been taught to see me. Would you see me as an alien too? I used to believe it, there were so many clues and theories that I had as to why I never fit in—even before I realized that how I grew up wasn’t normal.

Childhood is never as care-free and fun as everyone says it is—that much I know. I don’t know anyone who had an easy, amazing childhood. Being a kid is hard.

But I struggle to not envy those who had a trauma-less upbringing—Envy in a curious way more so than a resentful one; Envy in a way that makes me grateful that that even exists for some, and awe that some beautiful people are simply beautiful simply because they are.

Am I only beautiful because of what’s been taken from me? Because of what’s been done to me? I am a diamond that I never asked to be. But once you get a closer look, you’ll see the bang-up job and trade me.

I’ve been traded a thousand times. It’s ok. It’s honestly the only thing I fully understand about life, and the only thing I always expect.

I was raised under the guise of “a beauty destined to be worthless”–my certificate of authenticity, and they say to just not believe him. “It’s clear he’s wrong. It’s easy,” but when you have spent 18 years watching your own soul get carved out of you, with your hands tied, and your mouth sealed—not that you’d know what to say if you tried—it’s a war lost.

A war I’m still losing. Beauty has never made sense to me.

No one besides survivors seems to understand that being told we’re strong is more of an unfortunate circumstance than a compliment. No one besides us understands that we are this hard for a reason. Hard to break, but once broken—once our rough edges are revealed—we are deemed as worthless as we were told we’d be.

Every Time I Return Home

It is the sound of the toilet flushing;
It is the smell of the sink water
Every time I turn it on to wash my hands and do the dishes,

It is every time my mother sighs;
It is every time I hold in a sigh;

It is the pain of attempting to postpone panic attacks to late and early hours so as she can continue living her delusion that happiness is a location and a choice.

It is the lies;
It is the account of all of the times you tried to tell her but she broke down into incomprehensible confusion before confidently denying that trauma happened altogether (and fully believing it).

It is all of the stages of grief happening at the same time;
It is the memory gaps;
It is the “don’t worry I’m fine,”

And for some with profound luck,
It is the feeling of naked, tainted, ashamed skin-
Trembling-
Every time you shower, pick up a razor, apply lotion, use a tampon, change or undress in any fashion…

It is every time I hold in a flashback,
So bright and blinding-

It…is the trauma, and it greets me with a tight hug every time I return home;

Every time I return home
Is a total solar eclipse.

Conversations with an Inner Child

Do you remember when we used to turn that dial

On that purple boombox?

Searching for anything but static;

Anything but static and the screams downstairs – too tragic.

Finding that voice on that one channel

That grandma always listened to –

It was the only thing that kept her calm, too.

Her grown-up apple juice and handheld radio with the long antenna

Meant I didn’t have to search for any bad signals – at least not at grandma’s.

That stranger on the radio

Told so many stories with such a soothing voice,

It was hard to believe that it was really a baseball game he was calling.

But that voice kept us calm; it kept us sane; it eased the pain; it felt like rain.

Grandma took us to many ball games.

Nearly every weekend, every summer – from diaper years until our teens.

It was safe there too, wasn’t it? Almost as if we were carried right into the radio

And the safety of that soothing voice.

Grandma paid attention most of the time – she could see it in us

That we wanted to feel earth between our toes…

Hair and dresses always in the way.

Our second word was ball after all; They had to let us play.

All the while, no one knew how desperate we were to get away.

For grandma’s was often safe, but she too had her days.

And at home, her son had his days every day.

Baseball was the getaway – and Vin’s voice was the gateway.

We played! And it would have felt fun and safe if grandma’s son didn’t stare uncomfortably every time we played.

And when we got too old and were told “only boys can play baseball now,” there was no hope left,

Except for that soothing voice on the radio – at least that stayed.

……….

Do you remember when we really started to understand the game and the players?

And we started to watch too at grandma’s when she chose the TV instead of her handheld radio.

We were rarely allowed TV at home. At home it was the dial on that purple boombox.

But that soothing voice was on the TV too – a beacon of calm; a signal of peace. Nine innings of stability.

And at home when it was loud, we would imagine that voice,

Even when we could not safely get to that purple boombox

Because it was the only calm we knew

That and our cat, who was always there too

Our cat always knew to get close, just before our heart started to race.


That voice on the radio was what we looked forward to most about grandma’s –

Her house felt like vacation.

We got to keep our clothes on. We didn’t walk out with bruises. We didn’t have to cook for once and she made us macaroni and cheese with peas on the side.

A trophy for surviving is what it felt like – we savored it then and we still do.

Yet baseball games on the radio were what we looked forward to most about grandma’s.

That soothing voice on the radio was the safest thing about home too.

Even when grandma’s son ran our cat over, that voice on the radio helped the pain.

And the older we got, the more we realized that it wasn’t normal.

As it turns out, desperately searching for the specific sound of a specific stranger’s voice as a means to treat a panic attack is not normal for a 10 year-old.

That voice was a shield somehow, in a way we could not explain; in a way we could not know or understand –

Not until I learned that we would never hear it again.

And before I even knew, I felt the emptiness. I felt the shield I didn’t realize I had been holding for decades falling from my numb grip. And minutes later when I learned the truth, I went searching for you for the first time since we were in that house.

——

Vin – He was more than just a soothing voice on the radio

He was more than just the fun stories he would tell;

It was more about the way he told them – the way he saw people. The way I had never been seen by anyone: with real kindness, with compassion, with respect, with humanity. Even players on teams we were supposed to cheer against, he spoke highly of…

…Not another thing to worry about and another thing to torture for pleasure. We tried so hard to imagine that soothing voice speaking to us. It gave us hope that there was something worth living for.

Vin was more than just a sportscaster. He was himself. And it was the most beautiful way anyone could be themselves that I have ever seen.

I am sad we did not meet but am so grateful to have learned so much from you, Vin. You made me find my first passion – baseball. You made me want to be a storyteller. Your kindness and grace have lit a path I will always walk.

True Beauty Comes From Being Yourself

“Be like everyone else,” everyone used to say. “Be the same because it is what people want.”
This has to stop. Telling everyone to be the same is the equivalent of telling all of your kitchen accessories to be televisions. And what does the “same” mean? Ask the advertisements for soft drinks and candy being consumed by young and fit people, while behind the camera stands multiple people of multiple sizes.

No matter how much you try to sell this concept and no matter how many people believe that they are part of a compact, normal society, no one is. There is no such thing as normal because there is no true definition of normal. Normal is a word backed by society who manipulates all of us into thinking that the word can be defined as not unattractive in any physical or psychological way. Normal is an opinion that defines no person, place, or thing. It is merely an idea.

Over the last handful of years, advertisers have picked up on the “unique” trend that has been coming about. And now, instead of persuading viewers towards sameness, they are persuading them towards uniqueness. That is fantastic, if that were the case, but it is not. Rather than rethinking selling tactics and original ideas, advertisers have just replaced the word “same” and its synonyms with “unique” and its synonyms. Do you see what they did there? They are telling the whole world to be different in the exact “SAME” way. This is preposterous! This is an outrage!

This is capitalism.

Everyone has a goal in life. Some want to be at the top of a company that sucks money from people. If that is your dream, then congratulations. But if it is not, PLEASE do not let anyone (no matter how close you are to them) try to tell you that who you are is not good enough. PLEASE do not let anyone try to tell you how to act or what to say or what to wear or what to photograph or write or draw or paint or perform. Our “gut” feeling is always our best guide. Embrace that there is no one else exactly like you on this drowning planet. Go down with your ship because trying to impress others will never persuade them to save you. Only you can save you. True beauty comes from just being exactly who you want to be.

Pouring Trauma Steadily Down

A weight on my shoulders, chest, and ankles, but never a regret, for my trauma has taught me how to be strong.

A curse, but never a weakness, for my trauma has taught me how to teach myself.

A struggle, but never a setback, for my trauma has taught me how to keep moving (and even if I sometimes feel like I’m moving backwards, moving is still progress because bringing myself out of this emotional paralysis is next to impossible).

A hovering shadow whispering in my ear about all of the reasons why I’ll be alone forever, but never a fear, for my trauma has taught me to enjoy solitude.

;

When I read about the passing away of Amy Bleuel, I was overwhelmed with various emotions; The first was an empathetic sense of relief for a human that was brave enough to share her story with the world and begin a project that has saved my life and helped millions of others. I then felt rushes of emotional pain and exhaustion, for battling a battle this tough is so straining on the heartstrings and debilitating for the drained brain. At last, a wave of gratitude and pride swept over me for beautiful Amy, for it’s never about the number of years that make your life count, but what you fill those years up with.

So thank you, Amy. Thank you for taking a form of communication that has hurt so many with it’s conforming tactics and using it to help break a stigma and inspire hope around the world. Thank you for reassuring me with the realization that there is a light at the end of the tunnel and it does not matter how short or long that tunnel is. All that matters is that there IS a light and you can fight your way through the dark to reach it, and if you don’t quite make it, that does not give you or anyone the right to deem your journey a failure.

Thank you so much for your heroism, Amy. Rest well. You deserve it; 💙

https://www.washingtonpost.com/amphtml/news/inspired-life/wp/2017/03/30/and-your-story-will-live-on-remembering-amy-bleuel-mental-health-advocate-and-founder-of-project-semicolon/

Anxious Alliteration

Eating early always anticipates
wishing wells to taunt
fickle frolickers towards their
luring lusciousness –
Pure, patient, but barely
home, hollow darkness dwells
underground – unconventional,
Yet year-round,
inconveniently inspired
risk-taking roamers bury below
subsequent solace,
curiously considerate