Dissociation and Distortions

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Seeing the storm from the inside.

Submitted: April 21, 2014

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Submitted: April 21, 2014

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Dissociation and Distortions

 

Emotions come in shattered heaps. Waves of terror roll over sands of guilt. I am an echo. A ghost. A flicker of hope. A distant memory. A pebble tossed by the sea.

~

Senses ignite and input becomes traceable. Through previous knowledge and experience we decipher depictions of sound, image, touch, and scent. The collective consensus has been preferred, and we think in terms of truths and untruths. Our binary dilemmas strap us to ignorance that we may not be aware of. Describing the scenery through lenses of the senses is all that is fathomable to those that live. Yet, ideas that accompany what people understand, such as culture, religion, and beauty are a form of noise in the silence of existence—--these are distortions formed around the wired frame-work of the mechanics of the world; thus, it is our attempt to understand life. It can be simple to say we are truly present in existence. Yet, distortions of what we feel, believe, and see tug at the big picture like ropes with hooks to disfigure what we are in the midst of. I argue that being in the throes of PTSD makes a person highly susceptible to nightmarish distortions that leave the victim feeling like a proverbial ghost—--living with falsehoods just as anyone else, but the dissociation involved does not allow an individual move from the valley into lands of optimism.

~

Shame. It litters the ground as far as any thousand mile stare can see. Heaps of houses are guarded by rust—--the houses were ideas that were socially agreed upon. Though heavily guarded by rust, also known as guilt, Crows seek to pillage what little is left, and they are the maintainers of shame. They can be thoughts that appear and circle overhead, verses of judgment and condemnation, and general social disapproval. The Crow became embodied by my mother who spat that I should ask for forgiveness for something that could not be physically helped.

~

If only we, the walking echoes, had given ourselves to good decisions—--we would not be here. The Crow’s claws tick on the ruins, and pecking noises float into the air like a seeming flock of accusations. The accusers revive the shame parasites, causing the memories to become steeped in a sort of flesh-eating acid that serves to disfigure any sense of self-worth a person may have.

~

This distortion is as pervasive as any other. Ideas are held due to general consensus so they must be true. It can cause internal wars of self-hatred that should not exist. Victim blaming is the Crow’s appeal, but it is not an apt way to confront another individual high on their fight or flight drug—--adrenaline. It pushes the wounded further away from the comfort of familial support systems.

~

What if we, the living ghosts, had been stronger? No harm comes to the strong in this perfectly just world we live in. The rust is embedded in our nails and fingertips—--the weakness was in the things that we could or could not do. The weakness caused by guilt spreads up the arms and into the heart; once this point is reached, the holes created by the rust allow our souls to pour out, forming coffins that the husk left behind has to drag across the land. Dissociation has become a part of our reality, and appears as a field of lilies in the midst of an emotional wasteland.

~

The bliss of numbing after an emotional nuclear storm is something to revel in, whereas the pain is not. The peace of not having to raggedly breathe in flames of sadness becomes paramount. The Crows and the rust disappear. The rubble and sounds fade. The scents of decay pass out of consciousness. The lilies of the fall, or amnesia, become the greatest illusion—--the most difficult distortion to be ripped from.

~

Awakening to the pain is the most difficult part—--having to process and face the memories to move on is immobilizing. Screams of agony begin to echo in the caverns of reality and respond to one another—--almost self-aware and sympathetic. Flashbacks of swinging hands and emotional deprivation form tsunamis of sand, and internal debris of self-worth flies all around. We, the accused, grip memories thinking they are stable, but instead they prove to be spiders injecting burning poison into our veins—--this chronic pain is said to induce life. Yet, this is a false life. What is a ghost is animated and made tangible by fear. Fear is the greatest infection there is, and it mobilizes avoidance as well as dissociation.

~

To exist, to drown out the methodical thumping, and to breathe—bodies take a step back and fall into the coffins of detachment that we created due to pain and fear. We, the wounded, close our eyes, or the lids to our coffins, drawing back from the desert storms and feel the world pass by like a cool shadow. Holograms arise from these wooden houses and wander the land, looking for any form of connection.

~

To function, our holographic selves, or forces of consciousness, commune with the spirits of the living—--hoping to deter anyone from going down this path. Or, we identify and console other holograms and walk in tandem. All around, we are safe from the Crow’s accusations, deaf to the screams of awakening, and oblivious to our hollow-eyed existence.

~

We tread in a fictive reality that is often interrupted by what is agreed to exist. The greatest distortion of all is that it makes sense in the end, or at all. To accept what our senses tell us—--that the world is a violent place, full of dismay and harmful occurrences is simply a way of life. Dissociation becomes a way to cope, because the sense of a distorted world becomes amplified by trauma’s hand.


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