135 posts
  • in_fragments 6w

    Brain, Walking Away

    Sometimes I walk out of my own mind
    the way I watch somebody else
    walk out of the room.

    I'm off doing other things,
    and staying put, idly-

    I am still there, somewhere,
    but some force pulls my thoughts
    back and away, replaces them
    with someone else's,
    someone assertive or emotional,
    in another form,
    with their own walled-off memories
    from another ancient,
    hidden fractal in my head,
    taking their chance to speak...

    What started off as thick layers
    of multiple streams of thought,
    buzzing independently deep
    beneath my consciousness,
    soon gained the strength
    of silver bullets,
    entities activated and splintering
    their perceptions right through my own,
    and I have no control
    over when they arrive,
    what they will say, when they will go,
    how long they will stay away.

    My cognizance gets muffled
    and sometimes, goes blank entirely-
    blank and deeply dark, before
    suddenly snapping back into the light.
    In the middle of simple,
    everyday things,
    my body becomes a rag doll;
    triggered identities
    pass through me all the time-
    meanwhile, I can only
    stare out into nothing,
    my body heavy and my eyes,
    just as empty as my mind-
    taken over temporarily,
    for reasons kept concealed from me.

    At the edge of the emptiness,
    like a decrepit desert formed
    on my cortex long ago,
    I've been crawling my way forward
    for such a long time.
    But I cannot accept the others
    who are here, I shake them
    and smack them out of my head
    like logged water;
    so I always fall back out, run away,
    fight to bloody pulps for a life
    that is no longer only mine.

    I am tired of being
    pushed away, and pulling
    the others back like taffy
    because I don't want to hear them
    and I just want to be me-
    like a large, divided,
    dysfunctional family,
    alive in one brain, but they're all me.
    How can I be tired of being pushed away,
    when they're all me, and they're
    only trying to live as well?

    I used to think they were
    the villains, selfish
    for being there at all after decades
    of staying so silent,
    but am I the villain now? Selfish,
    because I want my body back
    to myself? Am I the evil one,
    keeping them dormant and suffering,
    buried by my fear
    of the other parts of me?

    Sometimes I walk out of my own mind,
    and I am never sure
    when I will return again.
    How can I reconcile sharing myself
    with myself, when it feels like
    I might never
    be myself again?

  • in_fragments 7w

    Emotional flashbacks are a type of flashback in C-PTSD that happens when your body releases memories of trauma, but your mind- the visual aspect that would make the memory complete- remains disconnected. You may feel pressure in parts of your body but not know why, you may have emotions bubble up that feel ancient and lost and take over you entirely, with no memories attached. You can have only visual flashbacks or only emotional flashbacks, or both- depending on how deeply you repressed something in childhood. This means that, it is possible to have just a visual flashback with no emotion or real understanding of it; and it is also possible, for just your body to start feeling the abuse again, with no memories as to where it's coming from. The latter is what I suffer from nearly every day.
    The body remembers what the mind is not ready to see. Emotional flashbacks are terrifying and exhausting, and they're still only half the story... but I think I'm starting to remember more and more...
    #pod #poem #trauma #cptsd #abuse #dissociation #flashback #thoughts @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    False Memories? Emotional Flashbacks.

    Faceless, but you're all over me.
    I believe you were here,
    are these false memories?
    My body remembers, my brain doesn't see,
    but the pressure in my thighs doesn't lie-
    you did this to me,
    and I will never know just who you are
    even though I remember your name-
    it was too long ago, and justice is a farce;
    like a coward you ran from your blame
    all those decades ago.

    How many of us were there?
    How many children did you move
    into that dark room, where
    the unspeakable was allowed to occur;
    and then you fled, nothing left,
    when some little one slipped up,
    revealed "our little secret"
    to someone bigger than you,
    someone who could put you behind bars
    but you always slithered through...

    My innocence was doomed
    the first moment I stepped in;
    they were supposed to take care of me-
    the son of those babysitting,
    you were too old to be around-
    but they knew, they let you move me
    and shatter my brain along the ground.

    Why do I remember
    my sleeping bag with the other kids-
    and why do I remember
    someone else's bed like an ocean,
    I was suddenly left inside of, alone?

    Are these false memories?

    You touched my scared skin
    with your oily, loathsome fingers,
    sauntered in at naptime and lingered;
    but of course I don't remember it well.

    Do you?

    Are these false memories?

    You still linger sometimes- when I sleep.
    You ruined sleep for me,
    my personal Freddy- I only hope
    that one night soon
    you'll come back to kill me in my dreams;
    at least I'll finally get to see
    you again, for everything you ever were
    and stop feeling your demons inside me
    Everywhere I ever go.

    False thoughts, false thoughts-
    if that's all you are,
    then how have you left such
    deep emotional scars?

  • in_fragments 9w

    Will I ever not be afraid of my shadow selves? Will they ever not be afraid of me?
    #pod #poem #villanelle #brain #mind #fun #therapy #recovery #dissociation #ptsd @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Childlike Eyes
    Fear Not The Mind's Size

    I'll find what I seek through more childlike eyes,
    scared of the inward signs for far too long;
    teach them to play with, fear not the mind's size.

    Like broken toys, I'll repair and analyze
    the fractured memories I always wished were wrong.
    I'll find what I seek through more childlike eyes...

    Those parts hidden away, familiarize
    them with the outside, tell them they belong,
    teach them to play with, fear not the mind's size-

    and the inner world, where the past is organized;
    instead of busting in, pitchforked and pronged,
    I'll find what I seek through more childlike eyes...

    Once arduous work, now we realize
    the brain's our plaything, although unduly strong;
    teach them to play with, fear not the mind's size.

    Traumatized, the answers why will surprise
    when I finally learn how to lark along;
    I'll find what I seek through more childlike eyes,
    teach them to play with, fear not the mind's size...

  • syncope 10w

    Dissociation Nation

    #Dissociation nation/ a floor covered in hospital socks. 2 minute showers in a flea ridden sink and it seems there's a leak in my brain and it drips from the roots of my toes there it goes/ down the drain with my paper fortune. Who would've thunk I'd be drunk on the glint in your eye that I may die. Gutted. A worn out penny on the tracks. Faceless/ let's erase this and let thoughts be without consequence. I want to exist without demanding payment from myself.

  • ananias 28w

    #dissociation #confused #mentalhealth #sad #depressed @mirakee @writersnetwork

    First thing I did this morning(afternoon) was write this.

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    Having a confused mind is like cruising through time; wondering why you forgot to tell the past goodbye. You arrive at an unknown interlocation; between fantasy and the realm of war and nations. The past is real, but you feel realer. You know the past happened but you forgot what it's like to feel her. Like a bad dream, the past feels disconnected; from your reality, from all who had felt it. Everything still fits together, I don't gloss over the seams; I panic and freak out when things aren't how they seem. This consistency creates a new normal, I don't remember who, why or what I was; or when I was, but formal----ly, as I remember the stormy seas, the tides raise and I remember things, that I repressed, things I regret; I am caught in reality's great sweeping net. Me against the others, all like me, struggle and pulling to just want to be free, of this god damn net.


  • wespadeshere 29w

    Behold my mosaic
    The sweat that peeks
    Between my lashes
    Forging my path
    As clean as my tears.
    The ache is a prison
    I'm liquid in a vase
    Without escape
    I now take shape.
    Reduced to a digit
    A muted para-hue,
    Metastasized by sunlight
    And drowning in the shade.


  • mighty_are_the_fallen 34w

    Brain Rot

    Theirs rot in my skull,
    Rattling around.

    When you die,
    Your brain shrivels up,
    A little wad inside your skull.

    Somtimes I shake my head,
    I feel that little wad,
    Coming loose,
    From behind sharp edges.

    My brain feels dry,
    Nothing can fix it.

    So I get high,
    And try to dismiss it.

    One day,
    I'll tilt my head to listen,
    And out from my ears,
    My little brain will fall.

    Sad and shriveled,
    Devoid of thought,
    All sustenance gone.

  • smitananda 39w

    The Other Me

    I am meant to be strong
    As strong as I can be
    But sometimes I lose my grip
    And split into two me
    The other me laughs and jeers
    At my antics and me
    To please and pacify the world
    It doesn’t bend, the other me
    It doesn’t stoop
    Hence I like the other me
    This other me is hidden
    From the big, bad world, the little wee
    That doesn’t let it ever emerge
    The other me is actually a baby mini me
    It lisps too, sometimes, only to me
    And babbles and throws tantrums you see
    Only to me and I let it
    It’s mama is what it craves the little wee
    And love and laughter it longs
    And wholeness is what it wants to see
    And to be complete somehow
    I play it’s mama it so craves to see...
    You know sometimes the two selves fight
    And burst into flames these two me
    And I am shattered.
    I die several deaths you see
    I never sleep
    For I am always balancing the two me
    And pacify the two selves, the two me!

  • in_fragments 40w

    "The angels above me keep chattering,
    but they won't let me come home.
    They come down to see me,
    and observe this ever-dizzying world,
    but they always refuse
    to take me back with them.
    I am euphoric when they're here,
    and empty when they go; this is always
    why they must leave-
    they know if they allow me to grow my wings
    I would never come back down to earth.
    Why would anyone choose to,
    when just existing is getting so exhausting?

    But they say they only exist because I do,
    they are my angels, so if I die
    they die too, and they desire to live-
    more than just observing and hovering,
    they tell me that they've always been here,
    floating, all around and in me;
    I've only just recently begun to notice them
    on my own, like a miracle.
    Nobody knows how it happened,
    what punctured the veil never supposed
    to be seen. Perhaps, I think now,
    that it was always going to happen eventually.

    Now that I know them, I am more exhausted than ever before.
    Why can't I just join the angels now?

    They tell me I'm not far enough
    out of the depths yet, wrapped up
    in too much darkness still
    to really grasp their light and the meaning
    of the messages they are trying to bring.
    The sacred angels are playing with me,
    but I am too bleary-eyed to see.
    But they're here, I can feel them all

    These days I'm so far away from reality,
    I always get lost on the way towards a halo
    and end up dancing in psychedelic static,
    following pixie dust trails into sparkling temples, finding villages on clouds,
    eating cosmic brownies in the sky.

    It is still only an illusion the angels
    are keeping me under.
    When will I be able to know what they know?"

    Jeez just let me fly away ok... I promise to come back... at some point lol.
    #pod #poem #life #death #angels #trauma #dissociation #cptsd #abuse #thoughts @mirakee @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Angels Above Me

    The angels above me keep chattering...
    These days I'm so far away from reality,
    I always get lost on the way towards a halo...

  • in_fragments 41w

    Secret Gardens Lost

    I've lost the keys to my secret gardens,
    the ones inside my head-
    can't remember where I left them,
    the keepers can't let me in;
    there are areas I haven't seen
    in a thousand years or more,
    others I have never visited
    manifesting sudden doors-
    there is still more growing, waiting,
    twisting up my insides,
    concealing memories in bricks,
    their locks hidden away behind them-
    I can't seem to recall
    the magic memories to render them loose.
    What can I do to get back into
    the gardens I once knew?

  • in_fragments 41w

    Things are moving way too fast... days become months become years... I just need it all to stop. Just for a second. Please :/

    Neophobia: a persistent and abnormal fear
    of new experiences or change.
    #pod #poem #acrostic #change #life #thoughts #trauma #dissociation @mirakee @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Never let me leave this room,
    enveloped in my ancestral tomb
    oceans of dust will cover me soon,
    preserving my head, away from reality into
    happy abnormality, down familiar schisms
    offering to stop time and impending doom.
    Been gone too long to come back so readily
    into the wilderness of novelty, let me stay
    awake in my dreams a little longer today...

  • in_fragments 41w

    "My body and soul are so dirty.
    I can never get clean enough when I wash.

    I will never be spotless
    the way I need to be,
    I have scrubbed and scrubbed you away
    for years, yet you still won't go.
    How can I rinse away everything you did to me
    when I don't remember it happening
    at all?

    Was it just a dream?
    Some dark fairytale I spun myself
    to fill the void between my bones
    that somehow has consistently been there
    my whole life?
    Why can't I let myself remember?

    I always try to sanitize the slime,
    but it comes from a place too deep inside,
    living within my own filth and grime-
    how could it be
    that I did all this to myself?
    This murk has been lurking in me
    for as long as I can remember;
    it belongs to me now, but
    it was never supposed to be mine to hold...

    Maybe in my next life I can be reborn chaste,
    my limbs will be pure and my mind guiltless,
    young and innocent and in love.

    I have been rotting alive here for so long.

    I am so sick. You make me so sick...
    and you're the scariest monster
    of them all, because I still can't
    remember your face. But you're in me,
    watching me sob and scrub
    and scrub some more, laughing
    as I weep, wishing I could peel
    the skin you disturbed clean off...

    You know full well you ruined me,
    there is no way you don't-
    I was barely a child back then,
    I was a defenseless little doe
    and you sacrificed me
    on bloody altars of your violent desires,
    laying me on your mattress
    like a slab of holy stone.
    I thought it was supposed to be safer in there.

    Why me?
    Why did you pick me out,
    pull me up from the bunch
    and usher me away quietly, like cattle-
    why did you move me to that room,
    that dark, lonely room that feels so unreal?

    I'm afraid I'll never know what it's like
    to feel safe and unsoiled,
    and unconditionally protected.
    I long for a home that never existed,
    a childhood I didn't get to have.

    No amount of soap and water
    can free my body from what you've done to it.
    What the hell have you done to it?"

    Trauma thoughts burn. I hate that these are mine. But I'm beginning to remember things. How the bed was too big, it swallowed me, and how I didn't understand why I needed to sleep away from the other kids. How naptime made the whole world go dark except for the hallway outside, even when I wasn't tired, and how I froze up at the shadows of feet hovering under the door...
    #pod #poem #dissociation #trauma #cptsd #abuse #art #healing @mirakee @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Unclean Memories

    I always try to sanitize the slime,
    but it comes from a place too deep inside...
    What the hell have you done...

  • in_fragments 42w

    "I am the poet.
    I have an aviary
    for a body, and I get so scared
    to leave it
    when I'm forced to fly away,
    to lose access to myself,
    to give up control to one of the others.

    When I go it feels like agony,
    some kind of death, like I'm
    made to fly between the fragile lines
    of being alive and not-
    completely suspended in time itself;
    neither living nor dead,
    but uncomfortably dormant-
    impending doom looms behind everything,
    only washing away when I write.
    It is exhausting to be born
    with this much passion, and painful
    because I can't hold that energy properly-
    when I am not the poet.

    Whenever I come back, my purpose
    gets dizzy and my vision is blurry,
    it feels like I've been stuck
    behind a screen for centuries
    when it's only been two hours
    or a single afternoon.
    Sometimes I'm gone for days,
    and I can't control when I leave
    or when I'm allowed to return.
    There is a hierarchy that lingers
    when you grow up absquatulating
    from yourself to survive.
    I was given a role beyond the writing,
    born into a specific type of suffering
    that is impossible to describe
    and even more perplexing to feel.

    I am the poet, but I am also teeming
    with acosmists and apostates,
    healers and persecutors,
    creators and annihilators
    and children alike.
    There are so many layers to me
    that I get myself lost so easily.
    My memories are apocryphal,
    my perspectives on the world familiar,
    and yet wildly unstable,
    views constantly and subtly shifting
    between one another.
    I never know whether or not
    to believe my own thoughts,
    even as I pen them down
    in a ferocious desire to make them real.
    It is a fight, an everyday struggle to write
    that at times I am required to lose.
    It is hard to remember
    in the moment of leaving,
    that I will indeed be back soon,
    for I am as integral as anybody else...

    I am the poet,
    weaving threads of exigency and truth
    that they are unable to pull,
    putting pieces back together
    for the little girl who never could."

    I thought I was gone for a long time, but now that I know I'm not... you're never getting rid of me... hehehe...
    #pod #poem #poet #artist #art #writing #mentalhealth #mentalillness #ptsd #selfcare #dissociation @mirakee @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Return of The Poet

    I am the poet,
    weaving threads of exigency and truth
    that they are unable to pull,
    putting pieces back together
    for the little girl who never could.

  • in_fragments 43w

    "Each one of us has our own role
    inside the circus of my psyche.
    From the trapeze artists
    and tightrope walkers, toeing the line for me,
    to the clowns, the animals,
    trainers and dancers,
    the capricious ringmaster
    and wide-eyed audience of curious children;
    they are all within me, performing,
    always going through the motions
    to keep this Big Top Body alive.
    They have never had the pleasure
    of a new audience member, save
    for the few little ones who love them.
    But they do now, and it is me,
    and I have no idea how I got myself here.

    I know them and believe they are there,
    even if no one else can see them,
    even if they recoil from me in fear.
    They've been holding me steady for decades
    and I never knew,
    sharing my pain, my freakshow in silence,
    growing up unable to be seen,
    truly thankless jobs indeed.
    Now everybody has been too stressed
    to go back on stage, some don't want to
    any more, some don't yet know I've arrived.
    Others have been trying to break out
    of the Big Top and leave without me,
    despite knowing it's not only theirs,
    and we've been brought together here
    for a reason.

    Inside me is a circus show gone awry,
    and sometimes it feels
    like all I can do is sit and watch
    as the music trills on, upbeat
    but distorted, eerily wrong somehow
    while the moving illusions and twisting,
    vibrant colors make me dizzy and nauseous
    in my seat.
    It's our circus now, none of us can leave;
    how are we supposed to rebuild
    and calm ourselves,
    to get to know each other again
    and familiarize ourselves with our roles
    amidst an environment still brimming
    with such rampant inner chaos?"

    The circus has been going under lately... but I know I can't let it, because I'll go down with it too if I do... we're all just over here trying to save ourselves, bringing it all down that much faster... no communication.
    #pod #poem #dissociation #trauma #cptsd #ptsd #mentalhealth #mentalillness #circus @mirakee @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Inside me is a circus show gone awry,
    and sometimes it feels
    like all I can do is sit and watch
    as the music trills on, upbeat
    but distorted, eerily wrong somehow
    while the moving illusions and twisting,
    vibrant colors make me dizzy and nauseous
    in my seat.

  • in_fragments 44w

    So... dissociative disorder or nah?? ��
    I'm so very tired of not knowing.
    #pod #poem #dissociation #trauma #cptsd #ptsd #mentalhealth #mentalillness #selfcare @mirakee @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Deeper than
    the Alter Ego

    This phenomenon in me
    goes deeper than the alter ego.
    This situation of separating self-states
    as a child to facilitate survival,
    this circumstantial fragmentation,
    the hidden mechanism of a young mind
    cracking to create new pillars
    and columns, a cavalcade of anchors;
    I was not an artist, devising a name,
    but a child, with a brain interrupted
    by inveterate mental trauma-
    forced to see the world differently
    from everyone else,
    but kept far enough away
    from all the troubling reasons why
    that I had no idea I was even abnormal
    in the first place.
    The amnesia and mental barriers,
    thickening again faster than ever;
    the faded memories, never knowing
    what I am mourning for;
    the parts of myself I've had
    to put on hold, thrust into static;
    the parts that went dormant amidst
    my recklessness- these are not
    characters, and it was not a choice,
    a conscious creation or performance
    for us- we are the same being,
    simply forced to become many
    out of one.

    An alter ego
    is the watchful curation of an image,
    made in mind with something to gain-
    fame, wealth, notoriety,
    maybe just a safe space
    for inventive and inspired self-expression.
    It is carefully crafted, mixing aspects
    of artist and character into
    a perfectly marketable cocktail
    of heightened features
    and show stopping charisma.

    More than alter egos,
    we exist as deeply altered states
    of the same personality, forged in fire subconsciously
    for protection and self-preservation
    as well as for play, creation,
    and imagination; because most facets
    of myself are so rooted
    in such intense shock and suffering,
    that my brain needed to learn
    how to tuck them away quietly
    into the sick and unartful chambers
    of my psyche that still hold them
    because I can't.

    I will never put together
    an artistic visionary, an alter ego of my own
    until I can meet and accept the needs
    of all the fossilized parts of me
    who were buried alive here first.

  • wespadeshere 45w

    Why did we wander
    Alone those nights,
    Tracing our prints
    On the ivy walls.
    Fearing the faces
    We'd see in the fog
    If we peered too close,
    When we were the ghosts?


    #DID #memories #dissociation #phantoms #fog #imagery #past #afraid #anxiety #numbness

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    If We Were the Ghosts


  • smitananda 47w

    The Dissociative Moon

    Once I asked the moon
    About it’s mystery
    Why was it so silvery
    With dark faces all wavy?
    It told its weird tale of
    Happy sorrow and sad joy.
    It wasn’t one but split in two!
    One was the dreamer,
    The sweeter, the forerunner.
    It danced and bellowed nicely
    To the tune of others.
    It was white and pure
    And happy and all things nice.
    The other was its alter ego.
    This moon grunted and guffawed
    At the silver’s foolishness and antics.
    It was full of pity and sorrow
    And anger and might.
    It was full of blackness
    And grey specs and reality.
    The imaginative silver was
    The face of the moon we saw.
    The black specs were
    The reality that none wanted to see
    The moon was both.
    Those with longing saw
    The silver bathed ethereal beauty.
    Those with defeat saw
    The dark shadows lurking behind.


  • wespadeshere 50w

    Hurtful thoughts
    And hurtful memories
    Keep my mind up, wide awake.
    Rest has become a prize for only
    The stronger of two fighters here.
    It isn't fair, from the start to end.
    I'm exhausted, depleted from my will.
    And the fight implodes
    Just as soon as it started
    Within a chasm
    That can't be filled.
    A black hole saw itself in a mirror,
    Took one look,
    And swallowed its pride,
    Then swallowed itself
    To hide away.
    Glass of the mirror,
    Acts like the darkness,
    Swallows up the light inside
    And shows you what
    You think you see
    But never what is really there
    And look too close
    It blinds you, blinds you.
    I'm so tired. So so tired.
    No one can tell
    who's won this round.

    #DID #dissociation #nightthoughts #memories #musing #existence #melancholy #questioning

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    A black hole saw itself in a mirror,
    Took one look,
    And swallowed its pride,
    Then swallowed itself
    To hide away.

  • wespadeshere 54w

    Depression isn't some beauty trend.
    Those mascara streaks
    Upon your cheeks
    Will only serve
    To trace the lines
    Of the scarred up tissue
    On my heart.
    And that is something
    I'll always feel
    But you will never,
    Ever see.


  • wespadeshere 54w

    Why are you leaving?
    Does my vulnerability upset you?
    Why does it scare you that I cry, mthr?
    Why do you move away from me so slowly?
    Why do you stealthily divert your gaze, or shift the conversation elsewhere?
    Have you forgotten that I am a person too, with a heart, in fact, that beats and beats?
    And lungs that can sing and laugh, and scream?
    I thought you said you knew me, mthr.