Traumatic Deconstruction

The trauma does not vanish.

It lingers—rising, falling—like a tide that refuses to recede for good.  You do not summon it, yet it comes, especially at night,  slipping past your defenses, stirring you awake in a terror without a name.

You lie there, caught between breath and dread, unsure why you’re trembling.  

And what it does, slowly, is dismantle you.  You are weary beyond words, and after several nights, even the act of standing becomes an epic labor, and the faces around you blur into silence.

You go numb. 

Then you begin to destroy—quietly, desperately.

Everything you touch becomes a target: substances, feelings, routines, yourself, even the people who love you. 

You want only to disappear—to blur your senses, forget your name, erase the taste of memory, and fall into a sleep deep enough to feel like vanishing.