The way that some memories haunt us.
It’s called PTSD, when thought memory becomes physical memory and my heart begins to race, my brain feels like it is turning to mush. It feels inescapable, like mud and quicksand had a baby and I am the product.
I am the product of muddy muddy trauma, the product of quicksand words, and fists, and abandonment, that vacuumed me down beneath the houses that raised me.
Perhaps, I will never fully be returned all my limbs; but I am still fighting. And, I know that’s worth something.
Susan M. Conway
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Her Deep Velvet 