This Silence Is Our Enemy

Countless people have told me to move on and leave the trauma behind. I tell myself that they just don't know any better -- just some here, some there. I feel ashamed as if I have failed somehow ... as if I am being difficult and masochistic. Most days I get up, go to a job, come home, pay my bills, and do those normal things when there was a time when I could do none of those things. No one knows though that.

Soldiers come home from war and can no longer relate to those around them so they turn to each other for support. I've met other survivors but no one that I could ever relate to and certainly no place to go home to. No one knows.

Move on? I'm so terrified to go to sleep at night that I either have to drink pills or stay up all night shooting XBOX pixels. Otherwise, like last night, I lose my breath and choke on the bile that rises from somewhere at the bottom of my throat. Sometimes, a wailing sound comes from a place buried away outside my realm of consciousness. How can I move on? This is just part of my night life alone.

I am your peer. I look average. I am average height and average build. I might wear khakis and a polo shirt or Levis with a nice blouse or t-shirt. I share the coffee machine with you. I complain about the morning commute with you. I picked up the cereal that fell from your shopping cart or helped you with your computer problem. You might know I have issues but, really, you DO NOT know.

I DO know and I don't think you would believe me if I told you anyway. There are no support groups for me. Most people with my history are shooting up, on the streets, institutionalized, are memory-less, or dead. So do not judge people so easily, whether they seem odd or do not seem odd, because you just don't know.

I'll save the rest for later.