New England Winter

 The cold windy air hits my skin and suddenly the stories I tell of my past aren’t just  stories. They aren’t something I use to entertain a crowd. They aren’t something I feel  stronger for. Not something from long ago. They were real, are real. Oh they feel so real.  Almost like I died and my memories are replaying on film from those ancient film  recorders. A mosaic of how I became how I am. I remember how I was, how they were.  The good, the bad, the grey. I feel everything I did back then. The pain, sorrow,  confusion, anger, nostalgia, joy. It all rushes back to me and I’m in that house, in that  room. In the cold of a New England winter.

 In the old house of my childhood under three blankets to keep warm. At the vacation  rentals hiding in different locked closets. My house had a bathroom without a lock and at  2am, was the safest place. My room wasn’t safe neither was my writing. My mind wasn’t  a safe space either, my dreams as well. I search for fond memories only to come up  empty handed. I know they are in there somewhere. Maybe if I focus I can find a positive  that’s not tainted by darkness. Even in childhood every nice memory was tainted. Nothing  was ever just good. I felt like nothing could ever be just good, my mind, my life,  wouldn’t allow it.

 My disorder was described to me at the age of six by my mother. She said you have  PTSD, “it’s when you see or smell something” She had described only my symptoms not  my disorder. She unknowingly described triggers. I know those well. I heard the word  PTSD but was unaware of what it stood for. I knew I wasn’t like other children but I  didn’t understand why. I came to the conclusion this was because of things I’d endured. I  was told later on that people experienced it after going to war. I couldn’t understand why  I, a child, would have something like that.

 When I broke down in the cafeteria in middle school, girls comforted me. They  asked what was wrong and all I could say was I have a PTSD. They didn’t know what I  meant and neither did I. A coworker recently asked me a similar question. He said I  looked upset. All I could respond with was, “nothing important happened.” he also  wouldn’t understand. Something important had happened. A lot of important things  happened but it was all technically in the past. It didn’t feel like it was over a decade ago.  You can explain as much as you’d like but I find if you’ve never experienced this you will never fully comprehend the feeling.

 I know when it comes. I stare at the wall like a deer in headlights. People may be  speaking but I can’t hear them. I look past them like they’re ghosts. I feel paralyzed  unable to move or speak. I’m trapped. As a kid my parents got scared seeing me just  staring. They didn’t understand why I did that and neither did I. Then the images and  voices come. I’m forced to be back there regardless of if I’m in class or at work. These  episodes are predictable. I’ve learned to not ruminate. I shake my head once I regain  movement and my head voice shouts STOP. I’m attempting to cleanse my mind of the  tainted memories.

 The cold makes everything worse. Once the sun stops shining and the warmth is  gone I want to be gone too. As soon as autumn fades into winter I am six in the back of  my mothers car. I am eight muffling sobs under my covers. I am twelve on my bathroom  floor. I am fifteen hiding in a vacation rental closet. In reality I’m twenty and the old big  cold house is so far away. I have a lock in my bathroom now and it’s just a bathroom. My  closet is full of everything I love and my home is a safe space. There’s no need to find  one. I am one, I’ve created one. I sit in front of my small space heater and wait for the  wind to pass. It always does.