A ghost story

You, me and PTSD. Hey, I’m S.K. I wasn’t going to share this piece of writing. I thought a book of poems about my season with PTSD would suffice. But then I remembered, it’s not just about me. It’s about you. It’s about your partner, your friends, your experience living, surviving and recovering from PTSD. I’m simply here as evidence that things will and do get better. So here it is. For you, my lovely. A Ghost Story.

_________

I can still see My Lovely there. 

Leaning back in his office chair, softly nodding as he patiently waits for me to finish the sentence.

“I” 

“I think”

“I think I”

“I think I was…”

Stuttering between each word.

“I was…”

“I was…”

“I was…”

“I was…”

Stuck between syllables too painful to pronounce. Half an hour goes by. 

My Lovely. He is a bookworm. A man of few words, mostly choosing to express himself through tacit actions and gestures that spoke volumes of his love and kindness. 

But now I am the one who cannot find the words.

After the incident, I couldn’t process the heaviness or confusion of it all. 

At first the memory stayed hidden. Like layers of skin growing over a splinter, the mind buries traumatic experiences and ‘walls off’ painful memories. It’s a highly effective survival technique. But it distorts your sense of self and destroys relationships. My nervous system remained ‘stuck’ in the past, while my mind tried to catch up. 

“Why haven’t you moved on?”

“Why didn’t you tell someone?” 

“Why are you bringing it up now?”

When I came home from the incident, I knew I wouldn’t be heard, believed, supported, protected or cared for. 

I thank my young self for guarding me with such great strength and intelligence. For waiting until years later, ’til I met My Lovely, met my incredible friends, community, therapists and had a safe home of my own. It was only then, when I felt safe and ready to do so, that I let the words free.

But many people with PTSD will be familiar with how the body ‘speaks’ in its own language. If you look closely, you will see the many ways of a survivor.

Dissociation. Recurring out-of-body experiences, ‘ghosting’ at any reminder of the painful memories. My eyes glazed over, fixed on the corner of the room, a balloon animal.

Hypervigilance. Scanning my surroundings: the office, the train, the pub, my own bedroom. Searching for snakes in the grass. Constantly walking on the edge of my breath.

Panic attacks at any small reminder. I was escorted off a train. I sprinted out of the office. I was a sparkly meteor shooting out of a party into a dark, empty street. 

Unwanted memories would resurface as flashbacks and nightmares. I would often wake up sweating, yelling out, sometimes acting out the nightmare. 

Flashbacks. Your own in-house horror show. An immersive theatre on repeat, feeling, smelling, tasting, hearing, reliving everything you want to forget.

Nightmares. Visions, real or surreal, of the incident replaying like a bad film adaptation you’re forced to perform in. 

After all that, insomnia. Because who dreams of sleeping like that?

At work, they converted a stationery cupboard into the ‘Breathe room’ where I would lock myself in for life-saving lunchtime naps.

Oh and so, it goes on.

PTSD is the body “bringing it up now”. 

One lock-down evening in the haunted house, I turned inside out. 

I drank two bottles of wine, blasted out music and picked up a paintbrush. 

While My Lovely calmly worked away into the night, I began to paint the nightmare. 

I was manic. Creating intensely, yet without intention. I scratched and swiped at the canvas like an animal.

I took my clothes off, wiped paint over my body and danced around the room. Casting shadow illustrations on the wall, I whirled in a frenzy. Possessed by the fumes of turpentine, stale wine and wet washing draped over the bannisters. Untethered. 

A one-woman ritual of madness. 

Thick oil paint carved out a disturbed figure on the canvas. A blue skull with hollowed eyes and an octopus for hair.  

I called the painting ‘Medusa’.

The years that followed were a pilgrimage towards peace. 

My Lovely and I separated. 

I spent hours in therapy getting stuck behind more syllables. Letting splinters find their way back to the surface. 

Unromantically, and somewhat absent from all the poetry I’ve written, I dedicated time to the habitual upheaval of rebuilding myself.

Getting up early, looking inwards, working out, saying no, holding that no, staying with wholesome people, self-improvement, basic skills, accepting my own shortcomings, and going to bed alone. Waking up, changing the bedding and doing it all over again. Year after year. Choosing to be kinder. Receiving the lessons, blessings in disguise. Getting wise. 

I was humbled to find that healing myself meant acknowledging, in a loving voice, that I had to bear the responsibility of changing. That I would be required to do ‘the work’. That I could do better. That, despite having been hurt by others, I was still the bare bones of someone. Hurt people, hurt people.

Even during the darkest winters, the sun appears for a moment.

The warmth of friendship. At first, like sipping hot tea on a frosty day. Cherishing every drop. Over time, it would melt away memories of rejection, neglect and loneliness. Friendships, like paintings, are unique, valuable and each with their own ghost story. Soon I began to learn that I can be the sun for them, during their winters. With every season of friendship there was growth. Thank you. 

I stayed consistent with my healthy habits and kept my connections close. 

Writing was my reliable companion throughout. A place to return to. A rhythm that gave my recovery structure. Cramming my huge green rucksack with stacks of notepads and trekking to my favourite coffee shop spot. I could not stop writing. Whenever I had the opportunity, I would grab a pen and set the words free. In their thousands, the splinters were coming out to create what would become the story of Little Ghost Rabbit.

Finally, I arrived.

Peace.

I will never forget those first two weeks of uninterrupted peace. 

I wasn’t anywhere particularly epic. I was crossing over the road near the Bow Bells pub, when it hit me.

My mind and body softened into the present moment. What a relief. Like taking a dip into cool water during a heat wave. 

Oh, this is it. This feels different. 

On a nondescript weekend, I returned to the haunted house. 

It was time for the obligatory collect-your-shit-from-your-ex routine.

My Lovely sat quietly, working away at his desk.

Gathering up the last of my things: a box of books, a few records, and a half-dead plant. 

“Well, that’s everything,” I said. “You can bin that.” 

I gestured to the monstrous oil painting peering out from behind the sofa.

My Lovely lifted up the painting. We looked at it together in silence.

Finally, he said, 

“I think you should keep it. It was a turning point in your recovery.”

I dragged the disturbing painting back to my new home. 

Sat on my unmade bed. 

I stared at Medusa. Medusa stared back.

I knew this would become the cover of Little Ghost Rabbit. 

Little Ghost Rabbit: A Poetic Recovery

Through poems that explore trauma, heartbreak, grief, longing, healing, friendship, and peace, Little Ghost Rabbit offers a hopeful reminder of the human spirit’s capacity for resilience and transformation. 

Available now on Amazon here*.

Article Written by: S.K.

Proofread by: Sophie Tibbs 

This is an AI-Free Article 

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