Poetic Therapy. How Do You Describe Your Ptsd?

[markymark]

I wrote this poem as part of my therapy.

It’s my experience with PTSD; I hope you don’t mind my sharing it with you.

The curse.

I’m not who I am or whoever I was! Nor will I be who I should have been.

Of no purpose is there to seek knowledge when it does nothing to ease pain or circumvent torment. A blip in the armpit of injustice is its only consolation. And reward for injustice?: Only visions of torture and pain while you revel in your victory.

Oh how desperate is my will; while watching my defeat in four dimensions. Cursed be to you.

What is of enlightenment when it reveals a veil of torment and lies? Enlightenment is not of the human, but of its excrement. “Who you are screams at me with deafening vigor, that I no longer can hear what you say.” Your hiding my trust within power shamelessly perverts the soul.

Shame and humiliation stalks me; carelessly I allowed such swine into my pen. Your moment of pleasure a lifetime of torment; your conscience unscathed; your sickness nourished; innocence of no value.

Pain’s only resolution is pain its last breath. Its end brought about through swift force, but its mean is nothing.

So, of what choice shall be made? The sum of wrong is wrong; the sum or darkness, still darkness. Paradoxes blind the eyes while navigating this labyrinth, but surly the glimpse of light shining from a distant star is enough to pierce this blackness.

Then, who shall I become? As a stick riding the river’s current, I am submissive to both calm and raging forces, and serve at its pleasure. It holds me and determines my fate. Cursed be to you.

Mark Wilder, 4/10/2012

 

[712xx]

Can it be dark and morbid? I wrote it a long time ago, so there isn't a single positive word in it. I think it still applies to how I feel deep down though.

 

[Tinyflame]

Why not 712? Look at 'Yeats'.
How you feel is relevant, even if you feel many things or different on different days.

I cannot write, all I would say is,
"Never a dull moment."

 

[712xx]

Well, the title is 'poetic therapy', not poetic misery -- which is how people might feel after reading mine. I wasn't sure if there needed to be a positive angle on things, like there is in the OP.

Except I disagree with the part that says:

Of no purpose is there to seek knowledge when it does nothing to ease pain or circumvent torment.

Seeking knowledge, for me, did help ease some pain, but if that was the writer's experience ... I say nothing is absolute or wrong in poetry or fiction. Only when reading different experiences can we see the world with different eyes. I'm afraid to show people the view from my eyes.

 

[Tinyflame]

I think you may be surprised that many of us may have the same view.

For what it's worth 712, I am thankful if others can find words I can't.

 

[Zef]

Quick Haiku:

Sitting curled, alone
Jabbing sparks pounding against
the walls of my head.

 

[The Albatross]

Selfish tumor that draws life to itself and sacrifices the whole body.
Desperately entrenched in what I need to survive and thrive.
Embedded tumor of parentage or genetics...
nature or nuture...
I hate you.

I want to cut you out of my psyche, my being.
My body and bleed to death or not.

I wish it was that easy... if even one cell is left...
you transcript me to a life of servitude.
Kowtowing to your existance.

I wish you would die.

 

[markymark]

Can it be dark and morbid? I wrote it a long time ago, so there isn't a single positive word in it. I think it still applies to how I feel deep down though.

PTSD is often dark and morbid, there's nothing positive about it, of course please post.

 

[markymark]

Seeking knowledge, for me, did help ease some pain, but if that was the writer's experience ... I say nothing is absolute or wrong in poetry or fiction. Only when reading different experiences can we see the world with different eyes. I'm afraid to show people the view from my eyes.

For many PTSD sufferers even learning initially about this disorder is of no consolation. You're are right, knowledge can eventually can ease pain, but not justify it. Thanks for the reply.

<Edited quote.>

 

[712xx]

I wrote this when I was an inpatient on a psych ward as a teen. I believed my life was over, and nothing good was ever going to be made of my life. I was told over and over to stop dreaming, planning, or wanted for a normal life. They said I have to make-do with what I have, and will likely be in and out of hospitals my whole life; it would be a miracle if I don't kill myself before I'm 30.

Someone actually said those words to me; afterward I wrote this poem. I shared it with one other group before, but think it was the wrong audience; they didn't understand. You all will. It is just a simple rhyming ode to feeling worthless. It isn't from my dark & morbid folder; I decided this one was easier to post.

Restless and tense
Feeling on defense
Things I can do, nothing I want to do
No, don’t want to talk with You
Hungry … nothing suits
Bored and unsettled to my roots
Lonely in body and mind
Hollow… deficient … confined
The important things wasted
Love unknown, untasted

Lost in the trivial and mundane
Pain, in vain
Nothing matters… never did
Shouldn’t have lived; stayed forever a kid
Should have died at eleven
At that time I believed in Heaven
Stupid … green
My life – obscene
Tomorrow isn’t worth the wait
Today, death is my goal; my fate?

Drippy tripe oozes about
Reeking views I could do without
My own mind is out of my hands
All the expectations and demands
Little is ever right or enough
Lotof the day I project a bluff
Bad days I smile, good ones I worry
Happiness makes me feel blurry
What does it really look like? Why can’t I see?
What is really wrong with me?

Mental Illness? Am I cursed?
I have an internal thirst
For something I can’t attain
Living, being, seems arcane
Most know something I’ve missed
I just wish I didn’t exist

Sometimes humor, or very juicy plums
Distract me from internal conundrums
I can succumb to the day-to-day
Not care so much and have purposeless play
But when those inane doings run too long
Their distractions decay and feel I don’t belong
In a world filled with self-importance … filled with what-for’s?
Filled with hate crimes and futile wars
With moral vanity, pious lies, dutiful greed
It’s a wonder why I care at all to succeed
What good does it do me? I’m already dying
Why not end it now to stop my whining & crying?

I’ve been hoisted up for the world to see
Then tossed keen in the trash; wasted freely
I lay on the summit of the garbage pile
Rotting away all that is good and mild
Some time later I’ve sunk in quite deep
While new trash piles on top, I make no peep
I allow it to happen; this is how it should be
I’m discarded and worthless, as anyone can see
Three quarters rancid, erasing my memory trace
I sink lower and lower covering my face
Almost at bottom and disintegrating
Now -out- matches -in-; ironically integrating.

 

[Meadowsweet]

I think art is a useful therapeutic tool.

I have difficulty expressing feelings. I've been taught not to, but because I never have, I don't know the language to say what I feel.

But poetry legitimizes feelings. Its a form of words where feelings are allowed.

I've not written directly about PTSD. But many of my poems express feelings when experiencing those symptoms.

Thanks for sharing your poem, I hope its something you will find an outlet with.

 

[markymark]

712xx is amazing. The last part says it all about me, too. The word at the end "integrating" for me means the battle with my alters as it relates to DID. I'm so fluent with switching in and out to avoid dealing with the flashbacks. Thank you so much for sharing that, it's such inspiration and motivation for me that I always seem to think I'm the only one whom feels this way as the world watches into the glass bubble I'm trapped in. You've given me an idea to start tnother.