The Trigger.

March 12, 2012
The trigger.
The creeping sensation.
The tightening in your chest.
You lose the ability to breathe properly.
You feel your skin tingling, anticipating the inevitable touch of acid fingers from strangers' hands.
You’re shaking.
You grab at your arms, waist, face, neck, any open skin you can reach, and try to protect it.
Protect it from what?
The trigger.
The touching.
The loss of control of your body to the outside world.
Someone overstepped their bounds, someone didn’t understand.
And now you pay the price.
Your chest continues to contract, your breath comes in short bursts.
You huddle in a corner, instinct takes over.
Your body language screams “scared,” “panicked,” “get away,” yet it only compels people to move closer, thinking they can help. Funny how humans are so out of touch with their natural instincts, they have no idea what the signals your body sends out are trying to communicate. It’s your last form of communication, body language; you are far beyond words at this point.
You start to cry, if you haven’t built up a strength against it.
I have yet to.
But, so is life.
Your body gives way, you sink to the floor; you succumb.
You let it take you over, have its way with you. Fighting only makes it worse.
If you were lucid enough in the beginning, you moved to someplace safe. Someplace where no one will find you until the worst is over.
You continue to shake, cry, but not scream. You never scream. People will come if you scream, and you don’t want that.
So you don’t scream, no matter how much you need too, no matter how much it claws at your throat and tries to break free. You keep your lips tightly sealed.
You let the attack have its way with you, and, slowly, you start to return to normal--well, neutral.
You can never be normal with this gigantic ball and chain strapped to your ankle, constantly pulling you down and reminding you that you are different, marked.
You will never be normal.
You simply can’t be.
Not after this.
Not after what they did to you.
You don’t have the privilege of being normal.
You just don’t.
And over time, you accept this and simply cope.
But, so is life.
By now, you have returned to neutral.
Your breathing is regular,
Though you have not stopped shaking.
But that’s okay, you can hide the shaking.
You are ready to go out into the world and pretend it never happened,
Like you do every time.
You’re exhausted, and you can’t make much conversation.
But no one really notices.
Just like every other time.
If, on rare occasion, someone notices your absence, you simply tell them “I’m fine, it’s nothing,” and smile encouragingly at them.
What they don’t know won’t hurt them.
Besides, you don’t want to drag anybody into this mess.
Your mess.
So is life.
You continue on with your day, numb and exhausted.
Ah, the numbness.
The one good thing that comes out of your pain.
If you’re numb, then you won’t feel the trigger, even if it’s right there, staring you in the face.
The numbness fills your body like novocaine, washing over and erasing all pain in exchange for a dullness, nothingness. You are not only numb, you are emotionless, empty. You welcome the emptiness, all but run into its arms. Anything is better than the Hell you just experienced.
But eventually, the novocaine fades away, and you are left exposed again.
Exposed, and afraid.
Always afraid.
But, so is life.
Usually you can get away with a few days of secludedness and isolation,
Oh sweet isolation,
Before you feel it.
The trigger.
The creeping sensation.
And the cycle repeats.





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