Not Normal

Part of post-traumatic stress disorder

is that you will tell anyone who will listen, 

about your traumatic experiences, 

often, at very inappropriate moments.  

It is also not realizing

that your trauma

is rare

and that you scare the shit out of people

when you talk about it. 

For decades, 

I would mention my experiences with

executions

sexual violence

starvation

homelessness

suicide

foster care

physical violence

emotional neglect

being an orphan

alcoholism

gang violence

no interest in school

imprisonement

teen pregnancy

poverty

loss

loss

loss

loss

loss…

And I didn’t catch when the person listening

would, 

tense up

lose eye contact

lose the color in their face

be on the verge of tears

develop an expression of terror, 

or confusion, or disbelief, 

or empathy, or sympathy, or total denial, 

that they would know someone, 

that this shit has happened to. 

Today, 

I am an educator, 

have a graduate degree, 

am the healthy mother, 

of two incredibly intelligent and thriving boys, 

and the wife, of a soulfully stable and devoted

Chicano husband, 

and I am a 

contributive community member and homeowner, 

and an active member of my Buddhist organization, 

and a healer, 

and supporter of women and youth, 

and a poet, 

and a good listener.  

My community mourns

when I share my stories, 

about my childhood and adolescence.  

Believe it or not, 

it took me a long time to understand, 

that what I’ve survived, 

is not normal. 

I’ve also learned 

that most people cannot relate, 

and I actually hurt them, 

when I share my stories.  

So now, I only talk about it, 

with folks 

who can bare witness, 

without it breaking them.  

Otherwise, I keep it to myself. 

When I meet a fellow survivor, 

I let them know, 

that I know, 

and I make a coffee date with them, 

to share, 

our stories, 

of horror, 

and healing.