I am Trama.
Can't you see?
I'm staring right at you.
But your eyes have been deceived.
You don't know who I am when I first show up.
You're confused by your emotions, the intensity, the corrupt.
You grab at the tools you've used in the past.
But none of them are working.
More confusion. No relief. You are baffled. You are aghast.
Self-harm and suicide are swirling about in your head.
You can't stop the thoughts of wishing you are dead.
The images of cutting your body, but where?
Someone will see it when you are bare.
I am trauma, I sneak about.
I mess with emotions, I lurk around.
I put distressing thoughts into your head.
I'm the one that causes those body movements,
All night long, as you lay down in your bed.
I whisper damning behaviors no Christian would ever do,
Shaming behaviors that even God would turn from, too.
Suicide would be your only reward.
"No one really loves you let alone likes you,"
That's what I'm told.
Trauma doesn't ever seem to go away.
It triggers and figures out new and defeating ways.
Reminds me of the catastrophic abuse I survived back then,
Reminds me how there is no rescuer, not now, not ever again.
Trauma simply is what it is:
Body memories of bad crap.
Getting stirred up and relived
Who needs all of that?
Suicide sure would feel good for this girl today.
But since this life isn't mine...
I carry on anyway.
This book I'm writing should be interesting to say the least.
It feels like it's pulling out of me a great big hairy beast!
I am Trauma.
I will Survive.
Again and again and again.
God's Purpose; Not Mine.
That's why I stay alive.
