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Friday, November 7, 2014

Stress Disordinary

It’s 4 AM do you know where your mother is?
I do
I always do
She’s a floor above me screaming
Heaving up cries
Capsules of air won’t penetrate her lungs
She’s got the runs
She’s literally trying to run away
Evaporate
Escape
From a prison I can’t locate
So I guess I don’t really know where she really is

I hope it’s dreaming
But it’s hard to tell
when her body swells with heavy breathing

I don’t know where
P T S D
has taken her

At 58 mom was kidnapped
Trapped in a memory of a man beating her
I hate that name
No one wins
Score isn’t kept by bruises on her skin

Yet years since she left him
Something’s underneath, beneath, within

When mom got diagnosed with
P T S D
I didn’t believe her
I thought it was just for soldiers
Men crushed by bullets or boulders
Marines in Vietnam burnt down by the Vietcong
Running
     Flying
Dying
But I kept trying to understand
Demand to be normal
I didn’t see the cut so I ignored the bleeding
I wanted to be a child so I acted like one

Her mental illness didn’t fit the media’s depiction
so I disregarded it as fiction
Reduced pain to self pitying addiction

But mom fought a war
Our country surrendered
The courts speculated she was too educated for abuse

Her PhD outweighed her battle wounds
Calling justice was no use
friction and affliction wore in the sores
We didn’t live beneath the poverty line
So they sketched us out as crazy
Said she was insane on enough papers
Until it was a diagnosis
A psychosis
And as I woke up every night
to sound of my mother screaming
She didn’t sound human anymore
She sounded like a statistic

It wasn’t realistic
That she loved me with every letter
But was reduced to 4

P T S D
an acronym for
Polite Talk of Someone’s Damage
Pushing Titles on Suppressed Demons
Persistent Tremors Shuddering Down as

Panic Terrorizes Simple Days
Pleasant Talk for Structured Destruction

You can’t function when you’re defined by
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

hammering behind your eyes

my reply:
Please Talk about Something Different

Stop telling me she’s insane
Because what’s really crazy
is that we don’t let  emotional bullet holes
heal into scars

It’s 5 AM

Do you know where my mother is?

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Ariel is available and interested in anything creative!
For spoken word performances & workshops, web & graphic design, or other writing/film projects please contact via email at arielsob@usc.edu.
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