I Don't Believe In This Trauma

It was a childish kind of trauma...

It seems so absurd,

That I should get worked up over some childish move.

That I should let it affect me far past it’s time.

They say that these things don’t have a set of rules governing them,

That you feel what you feel in response, simply because of who you are

And not what was done to you.

But I can’t help but feel invalidated, still.

I don’t believe in this trauma,

Could it possibly just be me, longing for something to be bent out of shape about?

I feel even worse because I know this happened to me

And I know it made me uncomfortable.

Unwanted advances,

They have a way of making you look at yourself as worthless because you can’t have control.

And then I think, perhaps it was trauma,

But  it has no business in my head anymore, four years removed.

It’s not just that anymore, however.

I’ve come to start wishing he’d finished it.

I’ve come to start wanting someone, anyone, to finish the job, do the deed.

Because maybe I’d finally have some clarity.

There would be no peace, it would be awful and horrible and all of those things,

But at least I’d finally feel validated in my struggle with this.

At least I’d finally feel like I deserved to feel even a third of the discomfort and mental exhaustion that I do now.

It’s so childish but I can’t get away from it.

I’m so tired.

It’s a feeling, like a wish for death.

Subtle at times, and at others it’s raging inside of you

Not really a feeling anymore, but a monster that’s eating you alive.

Who will take this from me, now?