By: Lucky Smith
It’s 3:37am. Bed sheets wraps around my legs, arms and neck. Jumping out of bed, and waking in terror. The unknown fear suffocating me with the shadows in my room. Panic is striking my stomach. Waking up alone at 3:37am reminds me that I am vulnerable. I have no control. No control means terror for most people in a capitalist individualism society. Control being the falsehood of achievement. Painful voices reckons my mind echoing conformity accompanied by solidarity. Sweat dripping down my back, salty drops are running from my forehead into my eyes. I check the website. That blasted, cursed website that is bookmarked on my phone. Relief no changes. For right now I do not have to run and hide. Hiding in the outskirts of society like a sewer rat. Protection for the victim can become punishment. Racing back to the little person I have vowed to protect, and love. Comfort for the moment my child is safe. Fire burning in my furnace of hate. How can I protect her when none of this is within my power. Plague with awkward inquietude from quasi paranoia furnished by being without control. Forcing myself to trust a judicial system that often failed me. Justice and fairness has became my Utopian dream. Except sleep has been my absent lover. Dark bags under my eyes branding me as crazy, insane and off balance. What is a normal response to danger? Fear robbed me of sleep. I begged, prayed, and how for sleep to return. Sleep how I long for you, and on my knees for her visit to be more than a dashing friend. Sleep and I once had this amazing agreement that I would let her take over for 6 to 8 hours of life. The contract was violated by tragedy. Anxiety, which is fear being the uninvited guest that rudely refuses to leave. Then fear turns into anger and harsh resentment. Fuck, this is one of the reasons I quit meth over 13 years ago. My love affair with sleep. I crave her company. I hated the long hours of the night that turn any house I occupy into prison walls. I loathe the racing thoughts that jump from subject to subject like a grasshopper. Now those familiar feelings oppression are invading my life again, except this time without the dope. Over and over again my mind would not shut up. Reminded again why I do not want to relapse. I do not miss the nonsense of distorted reality. Post traumatic stress syndrome requires herculean efforts in order to function with ordinary daily life. Herculean efforts that fails to gain empathy from the able bodied community because others disabilities are without having to provide the burden of proof. I’m at sixes and sevens why I acquire this disability now. Digging in my garbage of lifetime memories. As a child I have had upon two different occasions a load gun placed on the side of my head. The cold steel next to my temple by men robbing me of my agency. Still I thrive to move forward. I have ran into burning forests and my physical life was constantly endangered. Yet those moments fulfill my altruistic desires. I carry a crew member who died in my arms off of a mountain. Yet I learned to respect life. I can not see the beauty in his garnishment of me. Scars that will never fade.
The monstrous tragedy harms my child. Grief stricken by obligation as a mother within my duty, and parental agreement to promise my child, no matter what. She would be safe. Yet I have failed. She is the reason why I breathe. Teenage pregnancy burglarize my hope for selfish freedom. Tornadoes of doubt, fear and worry haunted me for 9 months. Nonetheless, all the anguish disappears the moment I saw my daughter for the first time. This Brobdingnagian love for my daughter became the passion for my life. Nonetheless PTSD has stolen from me the final seconds to reach for hope.
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