And with a touch of synchronicity

Tags

Bessel A. van der Kolk, David Emerson, Elizabeth Hopper, Overcoming Trauma through Yoga: Reclaiming Your Body, Peter Levine, Stephen Cope

Tonight I went to the parcel drop-off center located at the ass-end-of-nowhere, and picked up my copy of this…

Overcoming Trauma through Yoga: Reclaiming Your Body
by David Emerson and Elizabeth Hopper

It’s a book my good friend and recently renewed blogger, Linda-Sama, told me about. I’ve had it on pre-order since before it was available.

It has forwords from Peter Levine, Stephen Cope and an introduction from Bessel A. van der Kolk (BlissChick told me about him).

It’ll not only do me good, but down the track it will also help me to assist others who’ve been through trauma: for this is work I know I’ll be doing in the future.

Yoga is awesome in so many ways.

Om.

~Svasti

P.S. I’m not terribly good at remembering to write  book reviews but if I do, you know where I’ll post it.

Branches vs roots

Tags

Anxiety, Bad Old Days, branches, Change, clarity, cloud of doom, Confusion, Courage, dread, Expunged, Fear, gunk, Kinesiology, Nourishment, Panic, peace, Purged, remnants, roots, routed, self-honesty, source, That Which Has Been, Universe, wading boots

This entire universe and everything it contains comes from the same place. This I believe unreservedly.

Our roots are common, but it’s difficult to keep that in mind when you think of yourself as one of the branches somewhere at the top of the tree, far removed from the root system even as it ultimately provides the nourishment we need to exist.

We forget, and find it hard to identify with the whole tree, let alone the source of life that animates us. And we think that if we lose all or part of a branch or twig that we associate with ourselves, it’s a catastrophe. That life as we know it is over…

We get stressed, freaked out and whatever other reactions seem appropriate at the time. But this is just change. And our response to change is only as severe as our association with those things that are a-changing. To feel better, we have to learn to let go.

This concept can be applied to our lives at all kinds of macro and micro levels. Easier said than done sometimes, however!

And I’m reminding myself of this quite purposefully today as I prepare for this evening’s appointment with Kerry from Awaken Kinesiology.

I made the booking last month when I realised I was having some sort of intense energetic response to my five year anniversary. Because I want the remnants of all that gunk routed. Purged. Expunged. So bring it on!!

However, my body has other ideas and is bestowing a rather visceral response in anticipation of this appointment: fear in my belly, anxiety in my heart, confusion and panic in my mind (making things all cloudy and fluffy).

Seems crazy, this little cloud of doom I’m sporting on this gloriously blue-skied and sunny Spring day. The sunshine is matter of fact and reminds me that everything is going to be just fine. Yet, this morning I had to drag my sorry ass out of bed, like the Bad Old Days.

I know it’s all good and I WANT this for myself. Clearly though, there’s more than a few bits and pieces quietly haunting my insides. I function pretty normally now (whatever that means!) compared to how things have been. And maybe for some people that’d be enough. But it’s not enough for me, not by half.

So I’m pulling on my wading boots to trek through the muck. Time for another clean up, you see.

And it has to be done, despite the physical experience of dread that accompanies such ventures. This post is by way of gathering a little courage and exposing what’s going on in my body and mind for what it is: fear of change, even if that change is for the good.

I’m not just the branches, I’m the roots too. Especially the roots!

So here’s to more clarity, self-honesty, peace and freedom from the corset-like confines of That Which Has Been.

And here’s to a little more peace for y’all on this lovely day, too.

Om Shanti!

~Svasti xo

More info on EMDR

Tags

EMDR, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, Therapy

As you may or may not be aware, the most significant healing work I did in regards to my PTSD was via EMDR therapy.

It’s quite an amazing technique in that how it works exactly, is still unknown. Also, if it’s the right therapy for you, healing can be very swift. It is said that for more chronic/protracted types of trauma, the process can take much longer. In my case, I had about six sessions. That was enough to completely resolve my flashbacks, the unbidden terror I was living with and other related symptoms.

I’ve made a few attempts to explain EMDR to the best of my ability. But I’m not a therapist and I can only draw from my own experience, so of course any explanation I can provide is limited.

Recently, Dr. Kathleen Young (a licensed clinical psychologist, EMDR trained therapist and fellow blogger) has written a series of posts about EMDR. I think they provide some very useful information about the process and how it works.

You can check them out here:

• Trauma Treatment: EMDR
• EMDR: What Exactly Happens During the 8 Phases?
• EMDR: Questions and Concerns

If you or someone you know has developed PTSD, then it may be worthwhile considering EMDR.

I will say this however – the swiftness of my healing process left me feeling a little overwhelmed. All of the protection mechanisms and coping strategies I’d developed to handle the frequent onslaught of trauma symptoms were suddenly not required. Which is a good thing, right? Of course it is! But I still felt like my nervous symptom needed a moment or two to catch up.

Another issue I faced when realising I was suddenly flashback-free is something that Michele of Heal My PTSD has written about before:

• Treating PTSD: What’s Your Post-Trauma Identity?
• Treating PTSD: What’s Your Post-Trauma Identity?, Part 2

Most people with PTSD have lived with it every day for a very long time. As a result, it can become a part of your identity: “I am a person with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder”. Letting go of that identity can be just as scary as dealing with your trauma on a daily basis.

It is natural to want to cling on to what we know, even when those things are painful or damaging. And so if you do decide to try EMDR and find that it works for you, it’s important to prepare for a life free of the patterns of trauma that have haunted you relentlessly for so long.

Whatever path to healing you take, I wish you all the very best!

~Svasti

So… I said it…

Tags

Andre, Anxiety, Avoidance, Denial, EMDR, Grief, His name, House of cards, Loss, Therapy, Trauma, Trust

I need to come clean about something.

Actually, I don’t. I could ‘not’ write this, and not publish it either.

There’s a lot of ways I could keep this to myself.

But it would be against the spirit of my blog, in which I’ve truthfully (and often painfully) divulged much of my inner world goop. Always, always with the intent of de-clogging myself, and seeing more clearly what’s going on.

And so, I feel if I don’t get this out there, I’m lying. Mostly to myself, but sorta to those who bother to come here regularly, too. ‘Cept, if I didn’t, you’d never know. But I’d know that you don’t know. And that sucks.

So, yeah. I said it.

It wasn’t easy.

Going back a few weeks, this is my second last session in recent times. AN (my therapist) didn’t even know it was gonna be that sort of session.

Til I start talking…

You know, the reason I ended up coming to see you for EMDR therapy, was when H (my other therapist) uncovered my secret. That I never speak his name to anyone. H said she wasn’t sure how important it was for me to actually ever do it, and neither do I…

So what’s his name? AN butts in briskly.

…

[Radio silence]

And tears.

Could a red flag be waved more obviously?

AN says Okay. It’s time.

Nooooooooooooooooooo… I don’t think I can…

We start another EMDR pen-waving session. Me, stubbornly incapable of turning air into sound and forming that word. His name.

His fucking name. That stupid, meaningless word I’d allowed to assume such power. To mean other things. Become a symbol of terror.

Not saying his name it seems, became equivalent to wearing garlic, hopelessly attempting to ward off those vampirical horrors and fears, preying on my heart and mind.

Here on this blog, I’ve labelled him Andre. Where most other people I talk about have been given an initial only. Why? Well, he’s the main character of my story, right?

Right. Or is that denial? Avoidance? Being exceptionally cagey? Lying to myself?

It’s become so impossible to enunciate that I have violent psycho-somatic reactions. Coughing. Choking. Feeling like I’m about to die. An incredible sense of doom.

All of that, rather than speak that word.

Just a house of cards trying to cover for myself, willing to appear helpless rather than face it all squarely.

He was my friend.

He didn’t just take my safety. He took away my friend and replaced him with a monster. One of the few people I’d met down here that I could resonate with on some level. He was my friend, and he screwed it all up!!

I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I HATE YOU I HATE YOU!!

Swift-moving bile erupts from my mouth and body, scaldingly hot.

Can’t get that word out, not with all the grief and pain there. Sitting on the trigger like a trap.

AN asks me again, as we work through various emotions.

…

Still, nothing.

Mentally, I say it. Urge myself onwards. But no… nothing, again.

It’s dangerous. It’s scary. It means something… it means he wins. If I say it, I’m somehow bringing him to life again. And I’ve tried so hard to bury him, bury that night.

I’m powerless to command myself. Powerless. But it’s just a stupid name. Two syllables. Three letters. For fuck’s sake!

I can talk about anything else. Everything else. Just not this. Not this. Not…

Quiet now. I’ve sobbed til my heart is empty of tears. Raw raw, and fragile, and yet… false starts. Many of them.

His name is…

It’s…

I can mouth the letters silently. Only.

AN asks Does it start with a B?

No, it starts with an A.

That’s one letter. Only two to go.

But no. Locked into my seat in a small room with a kind but firm therapist, trying to shake me from my precarious perch. Gently, ever so gently.

My world right then, small and sharp. Pointed and painful. Dangerous, dark and terrifying.

It was coming. I wanted it to, but oh my god… the heartache, painfully beating like a foot trying to stamp its way out of my chest.

Like I’m talking to a child I say, It’s okay. Okay…

It’s okay… it’s only letters… its okay…

Why don’t I believe myself?

Just sitting and breathing now. And I can see, it’s just about courage now. That’s all that’s left. Finding a way to be unafraid long enough to squeeze it out. A little breath. A little sound.

His name. Its… its… okay, its… FUCK! Its… (wish my heart would stop aching), damn it, its….

And now it’s dead quiet in our room.

Its Apu.

AN repeats it a few times, loudly, so I can hear it, while I cry like a child. A child in shock, crying because the expression is entirely appropriate. Suitable to work through the pain. It’s shocking to say it. And hear someone say it. But somehow, its better. Already.

We finished things up, AN making sure I’m okay. And I left and went to a movie.

Then later, I wrote this…

And now you know. And I know you know. And again. It feels a little less covert. More real.

Still tender though, weeks later. Still hard to admit I’m okay with it. Even though its out there. And I’ve said it more than once now.

But guess what? I no longer choke (literally) when faced with those three letters. Not any more.

~Svasti

More on EMDR

Tags

EMDR, Post-traumatic stress, PTSD, Recovery, Therapy

Okay, so its a little bit of an ad for the guy’s practice, but this video is a nice explanation from the perspective of the therapist, on EMDR.

I found this because Google had listed my EMDR and me post as a related link from the video!

Never-ending nightmare

Tags

EMDR, Fear, flashbacks, Nightmare on Elm Street, nightmares, Panic attacks, Post-traumatic stress, PTSD, Therapy, Trauma, triggers, Wes Craven

Tried to describe PTSD to a friend, recently. What it’s been like for me, and why my recent encounters with EMDR are so miraculous, given the world I’ve been inhabiting.

To illustrate, I spoke of the creations of Wes Craven’s classic schlock horror, Nightmare on Elm Street. Y’know, how those kids in the movie tried really, really hard to stay awake and out of that nightmare zone.

But inevitably they had to fall asleep. Though, they never saw sleep coming. Didn’t know they were in the dream until, well, they were in it. The slippery divide between those worlds was translucently thin, sliding over the boundaries without realising it.

And Freddie was always waiting for them. Scaring the crap out of them. In some cases, scaring them to death.

Throughout most of that movie, they didn’t feel like they were in control at all.

This is the insidiousness of PTSD. And I believe, it’s partly why it’s so traumatic.

It’s not just the memories being on repeat; it’s that you seemingly can’t control when they appear or how it impacts you. Triggers can be both known and unknown. The unknown ones are the real kickers.

And the trauma is caused by having life as you know it continuously swamped by this broken record, stuck on repeat at random intervals.

The memory itself, was terrifying in the first place. Of course. But repeated over and over… it can stop your heart. Makes dying feel like a much simpler solution. A rest. A break.

But then, it’s not just the flashbacks, though that’s a hefty chunk of the issue. When PTSD arrives, fear and anxiety are the bitter after-taste in your mouth you can’t quite identify. Always there, flaring up when it’s least welcome.

The trickiest thing to understand from the outside looking in… someone who looks perfectly ‘normal’, can, at a moment’s notice become a complete wreck. Can suddenly act like a different person. And mostly, they can’t possibly explain what’s happening to them.

I lost a friend that way, once. She wasn’t exactly a very good friend. But one of the few I did have here in Melbourne at the time.

We were walking to a cinema, and were suddenly walking in very crowded area. There was some sort of festival on, and it became a flesh press… to move from point A to point B, it was necessary to slowly force your way through the crowd physically.

Which completely freaked me out. From my friend’s perspective, I totally over-reacted to what was going on. I had what I can now recognise as classic panic attack symptoms.

But this was only months after I was assaulted, and I had no idea what was happening to me.

My stress levels didn’t evaporate, and when we finally got into the movie, once again I over-reacted to what was going on. Which was (one of my pet hates) people talking in the cinema. It was just previews, which I usually tolerate. But this time I was really angry and aggressive towards the young dorky boys in front of me. Completely out of character for me.

Apparently the combination of these two events was enough for my friend to decide she couldn’t cope with hanging out with me any longer. I was too ‘unpredictable’ for her.

No one likes rejection, and I tried to explain to her what happened (as best I could) but she wasn’t buying it. Which, actually, was kinda fine with me, given she was one of those people who would complain about her other friends to the person she was hanging out with.

But it’s tough… like those kids in Nightmare on Elm Street, it’s impossible to put a stop to PTSD while you’re enclosed in its iron grip. And really hard to properly communicate what’s going on to other people. Especially non-empathetic people.

And it’s a process, waking up to what’s happening to you… to know your triggers (if you ever can know them all), and then… to finally feel like you’ve got a shot at beating it.

PTSD is after all, a kind of warped safety mechanism of the mind, trying to protect the person who’s been traumatised. The twist is, it actually traps them inside a fragile ‘safe space’. Makes them feel like the ongoing trauma is being done to them by someone or something else. Mostly, because the trauma was inflicted by someone else/an external experience.

But its not. PTSD is a defective thought process. It’s broken. It’s stuck on repeat, and in fact, its your own mind torturing you. A tough one to accept, because the flashbacks are so all-encompassing and terrible. It doesn’t ever feel like its something your own mind is creating.

However, it is possible to recover from. That’s what I’m discovering.

For my next trick, I need to let go of the vestiges of this thing. Apparently, I can start getting used to living in a world that doesn’t suddenly shift into a nightmare any more.

I can’t tell you how amazing the idea of that seems to me right now. And I’m slowly trying to trust that it might actually be the truth…

~Svasti

P.S. Note: This is not what I’m experiencing right now. I’m not struggling with PTSD once again. I just felt moved to write this explanation because I realised… there’s a lot of people who really don’t get what’s going on for someone in the grip of this very tricky mind game…

Not quite yet

Tags

Deconstruction of fear, EMDR, Fear, Post-traumatic stress, PTSD, Recovery, Repression, Therapy

Stumbling, crumbling pathos of my fears leads the way.

While my zombie-like physical personage cycles, walks and shops.

Trailing behind is my butt-naked Self.

Tenuous acknowledgement it all sorta belongs together is, I believe, what creates the coordinated forward momentum.

They’re only words, you know. Words I choke on, sure. But still just words and I’m the one who gives them meaning, and power.

Yet, what if that ‘meaning-making mechanism’ has fallen so deeply down the well, there’s nary a hope of recovery?

This is how it all becomes intrinsic… sandcastles of sadness, salty tears and the slow wearing down of safe ground… we’re accustomed to believe it’s all inter-related and meaningful.

Stepping off the balcony of that derelict world should be easy. Right?

Sometimes the simplest things are worst.

Imagine wrapping yourself in protection with whatever’s on hand? Mightn’t actually help you at all, but then… it was there at the time. When you needed something, anything, between you and what just happened.

All part of the shock and fright.

Should just be on the periphery but, instead, sheaths you with an invisible force field. Nothing enters or leaves. How else can you stay afloat? Survive?

But time comes, eventually, to dismantle such ramshackle efforts. Create proper foundations, ones that won’t tremble and shiver under the slightest of pressures, real or imagined.

No, it’s not easy. Insinuated as they are, amongst everyday things.

And when you try… when you do… that’s what the heavies are for. Big hitters, they don’t play nice and there’s tricks to be learnt, to slip past and out the door.

They’re just words and letters… three little letters, too…

And then, I get it.

Not saying, is much tougher than speaking freely. Really is. At least, in theory.

Finally, courage arises, and even then, those letters get stuck. They’re literally what I’ve been choking on, after all.

When, finally, they come… its ripping-off-the-band-aid-shock. But then it hurts more again, later. Much more. Time to rest and retreat and regroup.

Afterwards, standing up seems difficult. Sitting is easier, even in a very public place. Just sitting for a while. For as long as I need.

It’d help a lot if I could just puke, perhaps.

Once again, sleep has the answers for now. Just hopefully not crashing out on the couch!

There’s nothing easy about this, the deconstruction of fear. Fillet-o-fish gutted, it’s a clearer place to be, but rather hollow and sad, for now.

~Svasti

EMDR and me

Tags

Anger, Assault, EMDR, Fear, Post-traumatic stress, PTSD, Rage, Recovery, Trauma, Trust, Violence

We still don’t know why EMDR works, really. There’s research going on, and a number of theories. What we do know is that it provides relief for those dealing with deep-seated trauma, so says my therapist, AN.

Heading to the session last Friday, I was nervous, as always. But perhaps because of everything else going on, I didn’t feel quite as sick to my stomach as usual.

Though, AN barely started talking and I was already in tears. Again.

I thought she might’ve wanted me to recount the whole story from start to finish. But she just let the parts of the story that needed to come out, appear of their own accord.

We talked through the process thoroughly, to make sure I understood what would happen.

Apparently it’s important while undergoing EMDR to try and say whatever comes up – be it an emotion, a thought, an image, etc. And regardless of whether it ‘seems’ relevant or not.

Sounds easy perhaps, but it was interesting to observe how many of my thoughts I dismiss out of hand. How many are just tiny faint little voices, despite having something important to say.

With EMDR, nothing is considered unimportant.

AN asked me to bring to mind a memory or feeling about the assault that still caused me a lot of discomfort.

Didn’t have to think long. It’s always been his eyes – how they looked just after he’d hit me.

Those eyes kept me awake the night of, and several days after the assault. It’s not that I couldn’t see them with my eyes open… just that they were less threatening that way. Closing my eyes made them glow iridescently. They’ve haunted me nearly every single day of my life since that time.

AN asked me to rate my level of discomfort out of ten (or seven?). We rated each ‘scene’ (her term) as they bubbled to the surface (not that I can recall the ratings I gave, nor for that matter, were they necessarily accurate).

What came up varied greatly.

There was a ‘stream of consciousness’ feel to the way each scene appeared. Sometimes related to a post I’d written about a specific aspect of that night. Then, I’d be talking about how I feel right now, admitting to myself and AN things I really haven’t spoken about before. Next thing I knew, I was back in the moments just after he’d gone, in shock, where… I couldn’t figure out what needed doing the most.

Each time a new topic came up, I’d rate it, talk about it for a while (amidst many tears) and then I was asked to look at the pen. That standard issue black pen.

AN waved it in front of my face, from side to side and my job was to follow it with my eyes. And focus on whatever specific emotion we’d just been discussing.

Some ‘scenes’ took multiple pen waving efforts. But eventually, this deceptively simple process seemed to… lessen the intensity of how I felt. Lessen the emotions attached to certain memories and experiences.

An early realisation in the session was how incredibly humiliated I felt, that this could happen to me. So much so, it’s been tough trying to look anyone in the eye.

Not to mention… I felt totally responsible for what happened. I blamed myself entirely for his actions and mine. As though I should’ve been able to control the situation. Which clearly doesn’t make sense.

And no matter how many people would say ‘it’s not your fault‘, it was never enough to convince my very own vicious inner Supreme Court Judge.

There’s also my extreme anger at both myself and Andre. And my latent desire for revenge (hampered by my inability to act on revenge fantasies coz I’m just not wired that way! Which kinda pisses me off!).

Don’t know how far along we were when grief surfaced. Deep-voiced and stricken… wordlessly expressing the loss I’ve felt… my zest for life… my bravery… part of my innocence… all gone. Three years in hiding from myself and other people, especially other people… uncontrollable sobbing gushing forth thickly, like syrupy slow moving old dark blood…

Sifting through the rubble, I almost tripped over what probably lies at the root of the ongoing trauma I’ve experienced:

What happened… it could happen again.

If it does happen again, it could be worse. Next time I could be killed.

And hence my terror, apparently.

Which makes sense, of course. Though, the fears are somewhat irrational. Most definitely. But not to the very scared and freaked out part of me that has never ever stopped living in fear since that night.

This led to a discussion around my trust issues, and a whole host of other things. Stuff I can’t fully recall. But I’ll attempt to write about soon.

By the end of the two hours, AN asked me to recall his eyes again.

Funny thing was… I couldn’t.

Not at all. I couldn’t believe it.

I just no longer had a faster-than-a-speeding-bullet recollection of his eyes. And a week later… still nothing.

Thinking about it, there’s a tiny bit of discomfort. A touch of anxiety. But nothing like the horrible sense of being drawn back into the never-ending nightmare of PTSD stuck on a loop…

‘Course, it’s way too early to say it’s all over with any kind of certainty. In fact, I’m heading back to see AN this afternoon. For a ‘mop-up’ session.

I’ve learned too, from experience, there’s many layers to something as complex as PTSD. So this time I’m saying, sure, I feel a heck of a lot better. But there could be more to come.

So let’s not get cocky here… instead, I’ll just focus on gratitude.

~Svasti

**UPDATE** Check out this video I found on EMDR!

Wave it all about

Tags

BIC pen, Edward Bulwer-Lytton, EMDR, Healing, Microsoft, PTSD, Therapy, Vista OSX

Way back in 1839, when playwright Edward Bulwer-Lytton wrote – the pen is mightier than the sword – I’m pretty darn sure he didn’t have EMDR in mind.

But it’s kind of appropriate, anyways…

Coz along with some very specific and pointed questions and what I’m guessing is a well laid out process… a significant part of my first encounter with EMDR included a standard issue black BIC pen.

The type where the colour of the lid matches the colour of the ink. Such an ordinary implement, and yet it participated in the deliverance of some much desired peace.

The tip of the lid looked ever so slightly nibbled at. The kind of encounter with human teeth that’s absent-minded, not the obsessive/compulsive chewing of plastic pen lids.

So what was its role, I hear you ask?

Well, part of EMDR is getting the person being EMDR-ed (in this case, me) to move their eyes back and forth… kinda like a tennis match ‘cept you’re meant to keep your head still… and the implement I watched was the aforementioned pen.

So humble, so commonplace and every-day. Though, of course, the pen itself holds no “special powers”. It’s the movement of the eyes that somehow counts, and yet, for nearly two hours I contemplated this pen as I progressed through the bowels of my trauma.

And it appears (I’m still tentatively waiting, watching), I’ve been relieved of a fair chunk of that burden. It seems so simple in retrospect, just like that pen…

I could get down on my knees and cry, in thanks…

~Svasti

P.S. More to come soon!! Despite my lack of a job right now, I’m actually a little busy. Mostly running around meeting recruitment people. But also, I just bought a brand new sexy laptop (my old one needed to be tossed out the window)! And, just like a new lover that you spend all your time with, currently has me in its thrall – downloading apps and fixes for Vista (the evil beaste of Microsoft that doesn’t play nice with many other apps), transferring data and so on.

In transit

Tags

Anger, Anxiety, Assault, EMDR, Post-traumatic stress, PTSD, Therapy, Trauma, Trust

What’s that place called? That in-between world? Not quite home yet, but somewhere along the way?

Feels strangely familiar, though I’ve never been here before. Has a lot in common with bus stops and airport lounges and waiting for a cab home late at night from places I’ve been all around the world.

But that’s not where I am right now, not at all.

Hardly any thinking occurs here. It’s kinda blank. Yeah, blank. And I feel so tired. There’s no reason to hold it in now, y’see… no need to pretend, keep up pretences.

And it feels like I’m not anywhere in particular, almost like it doesn’t have a latitude and longitude. But that can’t be true, right?

So how did I get here? Bought a ticket, that’s how!

I knew it’d be a trip, but apparently it’s hard to take good pictures along the way.

This place, it’s a sensate chasm.

Wringing out my nervous system, skin tingling pain – the kind that tells me good things are happening… despite the anguish.

But it’s all under the hood, so to speak, non-verbal, the re-structuring of my emotional landscape.

Sure, there’s stuff we talked about along the route. Looking at this scene, then that one.

Drawing up tears, emotions, pain, questions and haunting memories, imprinted there, since the night he…

So much, so fast, it’s hard to catch my breath. Can’t remember everything we said.

Not that it matters right now. Sleep is what I needed, sleep. A slumber to soothe rough edges, turn the soil and plant new saplings of hope.

To fill the vacuum, where once certain dreams held court, terrorising the breadth and depth of the kingdom. Happily, their landhold is now reduced. Weakened. Perhaps… not gone, not just yet.

But those eyes? The eyes of the predator that for years haunted me every day, without fail? The ones I could see without trying, eyes wide open? The photo-negative image containing so much rage and terror, like a brand, a tattoo, always there?

Must’ve left ’em behind on my trip. In that other place.

Sometimes, it’s good to lose possessions you wish you’d never had.

~Svasti