ptsd

A Second Chance at Living

A Second Chance at Living

I am two or three years old in the apartment on Johnson Street. I am supposed to be sleeping, but I am scared. I keep thinking of the book my mom read me before she kissed me goodnight and left the room. It was Snow White, and I am terrified of the talking mirror and wicked queen. I cry out for my mom. Instead, my father throws open the door, which I beg to be left open each night, and he is suddenly at my bedside—a large imposing shadow.

Scars of Survival

Scars of Survival

Most days are difficult. I mean, it’s better now that it was at some points in the past, but I know that I go through peaks and valleys. Not every day is a particularly good day. And when days get stacked together full of work and stress, and I can’t stop for a while and let every thought leave my head, those are the worst days. The days where I switch to autopilot except for the really important tasks at work or in class. But things are better now than they were in the distant past. 

A Second Chance at Living

A Second Chance at Living

I am two or three years old in the apartment on Johnson Street. I am supposed to be sleeping, but I am scared. I keep thinking of the book my mom read me before she kissed me goodnight and left the room. It was Snow White, and I am terrified of the talking mirror and wicked queen. I cry out for my mom. Instead, my father throws open the door, which I beg to be left open each night, and he is suddenly at my bedside—a large imposing shadow.