Hearts on the Page: On Trauma, Writing and Connecting with Readers

Honesty and Life in Every Moment, Every Piece

I have been going through some PTSD of late. From multiple sources. All at once. I was talking with a friend and I asked him, jokingly, why we could not have some sort of trauma quota. I have had enough. Childhood, young adult, twenties, thirties, this sort, that sort, over and over again. But I realized that it is all the same trauma over and over again. Because to be in trauma, to be in PTSD means to be experiencing a separation of the self, to be feeling a severed sense of belonging, and to be stuck in a moment of pain and hurt that we replay again and again. Being in trauma, PTSD, right now on my couch at 7am, Reno, NV time, does the same thing to my body as being in trauma, 35 years ago, being 5 years old and wondering if my dad would get mad at my mom again today.

We get stuck in it. And we tell ourselves it is happening again, will happen again, and we have to be on high alert. I woke up at 3am today. On high alert. My narcissistic ex, coparent to my birth daughter, is dragging me to court again. I have no lawyer. I have to represent myself. Bam, PTSD for weeks over this. Monday will come, I will show up in court and I will be calm and collected, I will be strong and clear. Why? How do I know this? Because that is what has happened every single time I have had to face trauma as an adult. Kids who survive trauma get really good in crisis. Almost too good.

And yet, the anxiety leading up to any event, or as we sit and go through the horrible pain and hurt in our imagination about what this person did, how could they, why don’t they get how this hurts me and just stop doing it, and so on and so on — this anxiety knocks us out. Sometimes for hours, sometimes for days. Sometimes longer.

So what have I been doing about it? I have been grasping and trying and not giving up. Clearly. I am here. My poems have been little pods of anxiety and processing lately. I apologize. I try to stretch further and aim higher in poetry and in life but when you are caught on something, literally stuck, the sense of the immediate feeling is pretty much a giant fog of all you can see.

I want to be a better writer, a better poet. And I will be. I have community and I have support and I have intelligence and I have passion. That is that. And yet, the fretting and the anxiety and the stress is a thing of pac-man proportions. It eats and eats until there are not even ghosts left.

Ah, poetry. Where was I? Writing. Yes. I have been writing. Writing helps. I have been reaching out to friends. This helps. I have been striving for honesty and deeper communication in my relationship. And I have been listening to a boatload of zen and healing and affirmation and Buddhist stuff. Over and over again. Until I feel better. Until it sinks in. And then I can sort of have a bit more emotional space to do the things of the day.

I would like to do other things like walk and do art and play and go on vacation and what not, but for those of us in time binds, financial binds, deep depression-y binds, we can do things in small bits and pieces and make them add up. And one day we can do the big things too. Therapy might become affordable in America soon, who knows!

Writers and poets really do spill it out onto the page. Sometimes for better, sometimes for worse. This is just a moment of us. One part. Our other parts and moments are also on display and can be explored and can tell a bit fuller picture about who we are, what we are trying to do, what message we want to send overall, and how we seek to connect with our readers.

Someone might be touched by one piece and left wanting by another. They might explore the full body of work as far back as it goes. They might visit just a few. But our records are here. And in many ways they are for us. We can look back and grow, we can look back and remember, we can look back and heal.

For many empaths, sensitive folks, PTSD-havers, writing is this thing that provides an outlet and a break. We are transforming our mess of thoughts into something that we are going to be vulnerable enough to share. We are reaching out. And someone is there. Someone is always, always, always there.

Jenny Justice is a poet mom who longs to bring poetry to life in ways that spark empathy, connection, joy, and feeling. You can follow her on Medium and at Jenny Justice, Writer. You can follow her poetry at Justice Poetic.