The trauma coin


Getting old here on the sidelines. Soon my son, who is one of the good ones, will be off to college and I wonder..will I then be able to move on or will this fishbowl become smaller still and my eyes larger? What will the flip of the coin reveal and will it ever land firm enough to keep these feet planted long enough to plan?

Is it possible we see the truth of humanity in its selfish damaged collective because we are conscious of its struggle to momentarily feel top of the hill via flung shrapnel that on occasion successfully wounds the toppled?
As the mother of an adultish, I am part of that special crew who after being buried alive, fights long enough to shield her young from the million emotional shards recast from the psyches of the predators in their various shifting forms. In this I am satisfied. In this I feel strong, sound large, am grown. Yet...
Here I crouch anxiously procrastinating the interactional demands of this day. A simple phone call dreaded for hours, a trip to the store where I easily see myself again grabbing someone else's cart, again trying to unlock the wrong car because.. well.. my mind is too full; its radar so highly tuned that its value is as lost as I may suddenly feel while driving a known route.

Suppose that's a decent metaphor for the known world that becomes instantly foreign at the mere thought of becoming its guest player. When one look or word from a Regular triggers a cascade that may or may not lead to a struggle to stutter out a thought that progresses to a day or three on the couch, sweltering in the soup of its aftermath and
tortured by the recriminations of the malicious voices inside these walls.

The trauma brain is a curious coin with its unnatural odds and unpredictable texture. Surely one nobody would trade for a free drink.