How does one write after trauma, amidst fresh PTSD and hurt and desire to numb the hurt? Writing is an effort too much for the weakened. It’s too heavy, too precise, too likely to tend toward perfection.
How does one write of the trauma in a public sphere? How does one know when she is ready to share? I can hardly write for myself, but for others? Is it easier or harder? Do I need an anonymous platform? Where does present reality fit into the picture? It’s real and realness is a goal, purpose, whatever of my words. But I hide from the present. Can I share with anyone the hurt that fuels the severe anxiety and the desire? The desire to . . . to . . . I can’t say. Perhaps I am not ready.
Are tears a prerequisite to writing the truth of my present reality? I hate to cry. Don’t ask me to cry that I might share. Writing is healing, sure, yet my body and mind rebel. They won’t be healed.
I want normality. Don’t ask me to “define normal.” That’s obnoxious. I’ll tell you, though, what it’s not: me. I’m a savant. A bipolar II savant. I guarengoddamntee you that my brain chemistry is exceptional. Exceptionally fucked up, that is.
I do not intend to elicit pity from anyone. I intend to be honest. And this is the only place I know to start.