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Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Poem: PTSD -- 1st Person

Recently, I came across the following poem by a blogger who goes by the name of Universal. The lines were written after talking with a friend coping with combat PTSD, and the links are the original ones created by the author. Thank you for letting me reprint and share it here with others, Universal.

I can't sleep, can't feel
Time passes in chunks now --
A month passes for me
Like someone else's day.

Zombies don't have rhythms;
I go wherever my trance
Takes me.
Today I panic in a store,
Where danger doesn't lurk.

Maybe if I stay awake, there
Won't be any nightmares tonight.
But I can't go without rest forever.
It's over, finished. So why am I
Sweating? Why am I still afraid?

Today I saw most of my family
For the first time in a year.
Nothing felt real; everybody was a
Stranger I am supposed to know.
"Dissociation," I think a doctor said.

No bumps, no bruises. No broken limbs.
But my mind is shattered, along with my
I don't know how to tell you that, don't
Know how to put the genie back in the bottle.

When my emotions got shut off, I didn't get to
choose which ones I wanted to keep;
They all left; they are all gone.
And it feels like there is an invisible hand
Keeping me frozen on my bed.

I used to care about how I looked, but now
All I can think about is what I saw, what I
Experienced; nothing seems to matter beyond
That. I will do anything -- anything at all --
To keep from repeating that time.

I think more now, talk less. Months of numbness
Are followed by a week of depression and tears.
I am weak, frail, imperfect.
My identity then irrevocably altered.

Do I want help, you ask.
How are you going to help me?
You weren't there; you don't know
What I saw, what I did.
What was done to me.

How does one 'undo' a scorched mind?
Deep within me a voice mumbles 'help;'
But you'll never hear that. All you will
See is my distant, fixed stare and my
Clenched jaw. I can't take the chance.

How long will it be before you
Give up on me? I know it's coming;
I'm resigned to my fate. Resigned to a
Lot of things, actually. Here, in my bunker,
In Hell.

[UPDATE Nov 24, 2007]: A PBS NewsHour segment that ran last week exploring veterans taking a poetry class at West Point.

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