Broken Doll

If I ever doubted it before, I doubt no longer.

These triggers raining down on my head are too deep, too intractable, too hard-wired to have come from the mind of an 18-year-old.

I’m regressing again, the little girl cries in response to the voices that tell her she should not, NOT do this. Good girls don’t do this. Good girls sure as hell don’t enjoy it.

The shadows crowd the edges of my mind. I can’t quite see them, can’t quite remember, I just know they are there.

I’m on a hair trigger. Things that have run smoothly for years set me off. Anything and everything. Small things, dumb things, things I’ve never been afraid of.

Full-blown panic attack. I was screaming.

What the hell? Why am I so fragile? Why now? I’m on a knife’s edge and I don’t understand. I knew I’d have to start over but I didn’t know it would be like this. Regression, panic attacks, partial blackouts — almost a decade dead and buried. Why are they back? Why now?

Static churns just under the surface and bleeds out, bleeds out, bleeds out.

This ought to be the fun part — exploration, discovery, delight. Instead it tears at me, frays my edges. I have to get to the other side to get what I want, to get to the fun part.

Fuck, is it even worth it?

The tears remain dry and I’ve been here before too. The release valve has broken. Static crowds in. Shadows crowd in. Pressure builds.

Fighting and fighting and fighting.

Tired. So tired.

Something happened long ago Something that will not let go

god i need to cut it out of me and i can’t without him seeing it later