the Pavement magazine - PTSD (to educate)

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May 01 2019

A poem by McGinlay

I was daddy’s girl & mother’s daughter; now I’m a woman saying I’ve got Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

When I say post, the symptoms are present; but it’s no gift, it’s very unpleasant.

Traumatic, dark memories make me woozy, scarier than a horror movie.

But like a film played on repeat; the hands start to shake with wobbly feet.

The root of stress is anxiety manifested; remembering to breathe deep like my therapist suggested.

Disorder comes in many forms; restless insomnia gives me the yawns.

Heart drums with too much bass, hot & cold sweats pours down my face.

When the sensations are on overdrive, depression convinces me why am I alive?

Sensitive eyes & ears turns a whisper to a shout, my eyes are open but have the lights gone out?

No, my brain’s trying to be protective, as I go through blackouts & they’re non selective.

Fine one min then crying next, hyper-vigilant defensive reflex.

When the heart’s pounding, my speech runs fast; or is slow & slurred like a drunk on their arse.

There’s times when I’m sober & others think I’m tipsy, if only they knew the images flashing before me.

The city rushes ahead as my world becomes static, it really hurts to be told "stop acting dramatic"

A soft tone with a warm hug is all it takes, to calm the nerves & stop the shakes.

Flashbacks, panic attacks is more than I can chew; I'll embrace joy so depression “f*ck you!”

The diagnosis is not who I am, my soul is just healing & I’m doing the best I can.

< Glasgow voices The play's the thing >

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