A Dark Vertigo

Based on various television series I tune into, characters having flashbacks act out their trauma. A soldier may revert to evasive actions taken in wartime, for instance. In prior chapters of my life, flashbacks are directly correlated with my reaction to events. Out of fight, flight, freeze, or fawn: I froze. I held my breath and became suspended in time, at least in my brain I did.

            I believe our minds require a narrative, something cohesive. When I am in a flashback, there is no order and no timeline. Making sense of trauma is a process, AND, it may never make sense.

As a young adult, I reminded myself - my father is dead; it’s supposed to be safe. In a way it was. Safe. Except not. My head scrambled to put together a narrative to explain the reincarnated carnage of chaos; a dark vertigo. Maybe a flashback self-describes’: an instant portal to a past event. Or should I conceptualize the flash as timing the overall experience? Fast and repetitive; slow and gripping; regardless: an all-consuming torture; a level of haunting that infiltrates and takes command.

            Among the dark places I could not seem to run from, I began spiraling. The flashbacks; dark vertigo; chaos; sparked my desperate attempt to stop the onslaught. I left college.

            I tried anything I could think of to feel something aside from terror, and either become numb, or feel alive. And trying anything backfired. Many, many times. Again and again and again.

………. Are we at a cringe-worthy place in my narrative? We are. Take care of yourself and skip ahead or take a break. You matter.  …………………………………………

             Sheppherd Pratt of Baltimore offers a myriad of stone, ornate woodwork, elaborate steeples, and a host of other architectural brilliance.  The castle swallows my brain as I enter the psychiatric unit utterly unprepared for the next 10 days.  The locked floor smells musty, feels cold even close to the radiators, and houses furniture as old as the structure itself.  My bag is searched; my body is searched; and my naivety seeps out my sweat glands.

I suppose jumping off the backs of couches announcing, “I can so fly,” lands me in the rubber room.  These rooms are supposed to be padded, right?  Enclosed by cement walls and cameras mounted on the ceiling, I rage.  My fists, no match for concrete, grab at my clothes and the mats on the floor.  Alone, aside from a not-so-friendly echo, the loud of my head consumes my thoughts, my nervous system, and my conscious awareness.  Let the mind games begin.   I rock.  And rock.  The double vision resulting from massive doses of psych meds fools me.  I think I see a girl sitting on top of a giant door.  Wait, I do see a girl straddling an 8-foot door…and laughing. 

While in the “quiet room,” half of my belongings disappear.  I am missing clothes; my books, gone; my backpack, not there.  And the guy across the hall is shoved out shackled, with my underwear…hovering above the waistline of his jeans.  

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The next six years I focus on avoiding the dark. The last shoe seemed to fall continuously. In running from pain and trauma, I recreated it. At a point, the body and brain must release the overwhelm in some form. Disallowing emotion, continuing the separation of my head from my body, and dodging triggers…takes a level of rage, internal conflict, and a dedicated and fierce belief in your own guilt and brokenness. Hospital after hospital never matched my desperation to disappear. I strongly committed to self-destruction and stood my ground.   

Here is hope: I am still here. You are still here too, for which I am grateful. Here is my hand outstretched to you. Walk with me forward. Stuck is not working. Keep moving. Through.

*** If you are contemplating suicide or self-harm, you need immediate help. Call 911, 211, 1-800-273-8255, or text HOME to 741741 ***