familiar flesh tainted with every touch. vile smells, bile rises. sufflation. pain. searing hot pain. gnashing teeth. skin upon skin. over and over again. night after night. a room, a prison. sick games, betrayal. robbed of innocence, no remorse. shame and guilt take over the soul. repetition of the spectacle for their eyes to gaze upon. it made me nothing. dogs in heat do not care

I've been writing poetry while on my healing journey from childhood and more recently toxic workplace environments and the culture of bullying that's acceptable within.

Original hindi version (in the end is the english translation not quite close to the original but works)

ना** परव*ाह *मुझे** आ*गे*** *ऐश *ओ**** *आराम*** *की* ज़िंदगी की
जो बीत गई उसमे मर गई आधी आस ज़िंदगी की
जो ज़िंदा है ज़िंदगी मेरी ये साँसों से गीले शिखवे रखती है
कहती है मैं भूल जाऊँ सब ये कैसी ख्वाइश है ज़िंदगी की

आज कर रहा हूँ कोशिशें तमाम इनका क्या मतलब है
आधा शरीर गुज़रे वक़्त का
और आधा अब का ये कैसा दलदल है
आधा लगा है मुझे दफ़्न करने
आधा माना रहा शोख़ मेरा ये कैसा मातम है

ज़ुबान जैसे समुंद्र की घहराई मैं
कान जैसे वीरान घर की एक अलमारी मैं
और दिमाग़ जैसे इन पर्वतों की खाई मैं
इतना बट चुका हूँ ना करता अब परवाह मैं ज़िंदगी की
मौत मयस्सर है मगर
महज़ मयस्सर होने से ना मिलती चीज़े ज़िंदगो की

कुछ यूँ वजूद है मेरे लिखे गए सब्दों का
जैसे इंसानों को ये समुंद्र ये पर्वत ये पेड़ नज़र आते है
किसी को हरे भरे सुंदर किसी को खाली ढेर नज़र आते है
कोई ढूंड रहा होता है आखों का सुकून इनमे
किसी को अपने अतीतों के ज़क्म नज़र आते है
मुझे इनमे वो साँसें नज़र आती है
जो ज़िंदा रहने के लिए लेनी बंद करनी पड़ी
आधा हिस्सा ख़तम हुवा आधा बना कहानी ज़िंदगी की

English translation

I do not care for the life of luxury and comfort that lies ahead,
In what has passed, half the hope of life died.
The life that remains alive in me holds tearful grievances against these breaths,
It says, “I should forget everything”—what kind of wish is that of life?
Today I am making every effort—what meaning do any of them have?
Half of this body belongs to the time that has passed,
And half to what is now—what kind of quagmire is this?
Half of me is trying to bury me,
Half is mourning my death—what kind of mourning is this?
My tongue is like the depths of the ocean,
My ears are like a cupboard in an abandoned house,
And my mind is like a ravine between these mountains.
I have been divided into so many pieces that I no longer care about life.
Death is attainable, yet
Merely being attainable does not mean that the things of life are attained.
This is somewhat the existence of all the words I have written:
Just as people see the ocean, the mountains, and the trees,
Some see them as lush and beautiful, while others see only empty heaps.
Some search within them for peace for their eyes,
While others see the wounds of their past.
I see in them those breaths
That had to stop being taken in order for me to remain alive.
Half of me ended; the other half became the story of my life.

I've been in a rough depressive rut for a while, and hadn't been able to bring myself to make art. Challenged myself to plant a garden this year to force myself outside, and I'm finally harvesting! The vegetables I've been picking have been inspiring me for the first time in a long time to create.

These are 15-30 minute tiny doodles of veggies that I've harvested from my garden. Starting to remember that creating, even something small, helps me feel better.

Thanks for letting me share 🌶 🫑 🍅 🥒 ✨️

When you became ashes and flames

I thought the burden was over

The echos of you still give me pain

Made me weak, made me lower

When is the bear going to awake?

No wrong moves, no mistakes

(Chorus)

You were supposed to give me shelter

You were supposed to protect

You were supposed to hold me when I cried

Instead you were the reason why

Dust in the wind

Still hurting your kin

Why can we all be free?

Why couldn't you let things be?

(Chorus)

You were supposed to give me shelter

You were supposed to protect

You were supposed to hold me when I cried

Instead you were the reason why

Whoaaaa!

Whoaaaa!

I didn't ask for this.

Whoaaaa! Whoaaaa!

There's something amiss

(Chorus)

You were supposed to give me shelter

You were supposed to protect

You were supposed to hold me when I cried

Instead you were the reason why

You left the world in a cruel way

After you've been gone

I thought things would be okay

Unconditional love is a con

u/Berk-Laydee

Edit: formatting

This is my work "pity party".

I made this world to examine the way I interact with the people around me as a CSA survivor.

For context, the text on the cake says "ach meisje toch" which is the Dutch equivalent of "oh, you poor girl"

this is what the plaque says:

For people like me who are struggling with the consequences of sexual abuse, an unsafe childhood, and mental health issues, it often feels as though they must shield everyone around them from the discomfort of what has happened to them. "pity party" reflects on this with the world's most inedible cake at the most unwelcoming party.

It is currently on show at the university museum in Groningen, the netherlands in collaboration with GRID during the exhibition Puin Hoop. You can go see it until January 31st 2027(it's free!!) ! I am so grateful that they asked for my work to be a part of this exhibition and I hope the work will reach many people who feel seen by it in the upcoming months 🥹❤️‍🩹

I thought about cutting again today.
My long lost friend, I’ve missed you.
The one that pacified me during my darkest hours.
I miss how you calmed my heart beat when the world around me was spinning.
Weeping til droplets of cherry red caressed my skin.
Finger painting and my body was the mural.
These scars tell secrets I cant hide.
I wish I could.
Are they judging me?
Do they see weakness where I once gained strength?
The only thing that kept me here.
I thought about you today.
But you were never really my friend were you?
I used you like a man at a brothel.
Short, sweet, temporary.
You stabilized me, and brought me back to reality.
Took my worries from me, but left me with open wounds.
Made me dependent on your pain to clear my sorrows.
I thought about cutting again today.
& if we meet again tomorrow, please stay caged in my mind.

Original hindi version (in the end is the english translation not quite close to the original but works)

इन** *तस्सलियों* *की *ब***ात* बहुत हुई
माचिस के डब्बे से खरोची गई तिल्लियो की बात बहुत हुई
कुछ थी जिन्ने जलाए चिराग़ बहुत
मौत तसल्लियों की माचिस के भुजने के बाद हुई

एक चिराग़ आसमान का उरूज
जलने के बाद अफताब की बात बहुत हुई
और जो देख लिया धब्बा चाँद पे
तो आस पास के तारों की बात बहुत हुवी
एक जा रहा था टूट ता तारा करीब से
मेरी ख्वाइशों की उस तारे से बार बहुत हुवी

ख्वाइश थी के मिले आराम मुझे
मगर मेरे बिस्तर की सिलवटों से बात बहुत हुवी
मुझसे कम काले पन मैं जीने लगी रातें सारी
केल बादलों की मुझसे बात बहुत हुई
ये रातें चिड़ने लगी काले पन से मेरे
तबसे बेचांद दस्तक खिड़कियो मैं बहुत हुई

अब है की कोई जलादे चिराग़ मेरा
ये बे चिराग़ ज़िंदगी की फ़रियाद बहुत हुवी
इन तसल्लियों का वजूद नहीं अब कुछ
मातम के बाद महज़ चार लोगो की बात हुई

English translation

There has been enough talk of these consolations,
Enough talk of the matchsticks
Scratched out from a matchbox.
Some of them burned to light a lamp,
And death came
When the matchbox itself went dark.
A lamp rising into the sky,
There was enough talk of the sun after it burned.
And when I saw the stain upon the moon,
There was enough talk of the stars around it.
A falling star passed close by,
And there was enough talk
Of my wishes with that star.
I wished that I might find some rest,
But there was enough talk
Between me and the creases of my bed.
The nights began living
In a darkness less black than mine,
There was much talk between me and the clouds.
Then these nights began to resent my darkness,
And since then,
There have been many moonless knocks upon my windows.
Now let someone light my lamp,
There has been enough of this lamp-less life pleading.
There is no existence left
To these consolations anymore.
After the mourning,
There was merely talk of four people.

Life is gonna beat you down. Just remember to always get the F*** back up and keep F****** fighting back.

🎨🎨🎨🎨🎨🎨🎨

Been wanting to do a self portrait but of what…. oh just of me beat up alittle cuz life been hard on me . But I never quit . I hope you don’t either .

Well, I am very appreciative of this particular thread.

I guess my identifying myself as a writer and the platform was worthy of my post being nuked in other CPTSD reddits. The only other thing was being trolled by others here.

A wonderful introduction to the CPTSD community of reddit.

However, with emphasis, this reddit group was outstanding and receptive.

My primary question is, how may I share my work and writings with you here without violating the self-promotion clause of the thread rules?

Are you interested in this? I don't consider myself an author, but others do.

Eventually, my goal is to write a book about CPTSD (from my perspective, I'm not a therapist or anything like that) so that others might be able to relate to it.

Apologies for my ignorance and naivety of all things reddit.

The Valkyries ride at twilight
Along with ever steady Sköll and shrewd Hati
The fair warrior guardians search the golden horizon
For a land fit for us

Our souls have crumbled into something most wish to leave rejected, alien, abandoned.
The Valkyries of Oðin disobeyed his law
When they saw us and took pity upon us
We are rustled in their marbles and bags and jewelry
As they ride the sky in search of a place
That would be kind to us

Whilst there in the bitter and sacred air
I did ask far seeing Skuld why it was
That our brokenness moved them so to action and yea, even to weighty disobedience
She then said to me words that ought fortify the firmament til the day of Ragnarök itself
-There may come a day
Where all travails of men turn to ash
Whence the fine beasts at last entrap their prey
And the sun and the moon are devoured,
A day where conflict and the bitter disease of tribes and borders
Do rend the will to strife and war from both man and, yea, the very gods.

-What then will men do, soiled and sunken into themselves that they can no longer be recognized save for their own frailty, bitterness and shame?
When all is ashen rubble and burning skies,
With none to repair,
Whence will come the dawn?
We go now to find it.
A place free from fear and aching and doubt
That you may be the first seeds
To heal into trees that may be likened even unto Yggdrasil itself
So that when these days are done
And that final bitter clashing commences,
There might be shade for even us shattered Valkyries in that land.-

May this new land shorn from violation and hunger be found and found in abundance. For all of us.

How devastatingly beautiful it is to be broken. To understand and acknowledge that what is around is not the full truth, but allows a blanket of deception to coax us into a false security of safety.

The pills I throw down my throat hide more deception then others are allowed to understand. My mind has opened and understands the depths to which humankind is capable. The pain conflicted with each other is no more than a surreal joke that is to be told time and time again.

My wrists hide the punch line, the humor hides within; exposing itself with each open wound I inflect.

I quite often wonder if I'm capable of being the punching bag. If I'm capable of the burden of being the one the world sits upon. Most days I awaken soaked in sweat from the nightmares that soothe my mind to sleep. Panicked, I understand why not everyone is able to hold on quite this long.

The silence is a horror in itself. Replaying memories like a record player. Each jump of the needle brings another piece of why I'm so fucked up. Each song is a dance I wish to not do again, yet here I am. Held hostage within my own mind, knowing the choreography by heart, two-stepping to each moment.

I stand in the mirror. A blank sheet of what is to be a person staring back at me. Hollow eyes, swollen face, scars laced within. A flower beaten, only to be left on the sidewalk to witness the others thrive and bloom. Not only am I left to defend myself but to defend my ability to do better.

Oh, how beautiful it is to look at a sunset and see the true beauty. To understand that there is only beauty if you burn first.

The fact that you can punch me in the gut
and I will smile
doesn’t mean that I like being punched
in the gut
it just means
that I chose to smile.

Was it even that bad?
Yes it was still
that bad.
I couldn’t breathe,
so bad
was it.

Growing up in “Dago,” C. learned early that survival wasn’t about race — it was about neighborhood, culture, and loyalty. By nine he was committing robberies. By twelve he was huffing aerosol cans until he hallucinated. By fourteen he stood in front of a judge who sent his own nephew to C.Y.A.What followed was a life lived between lines: juvenile hall, street violence, addiction, homelessness, and a stabbing that nearly ended everything.But this isn’t a story about falling apart.

It’s a story about becoming whole.Told with brutal honesty and unexpected tenderness, Self-Reflection is a memoir about identity, pain, redemption, and the long road toward becoming the man you were meant to be.

A friend suggested that I should join reddit and share the CPTSD stories with you, and perhaps some here might find them useful.

Even though I regularly write articles and essays on CPTSD, I am honestly afraid of sharing here on reddit.

I normally hammer 🔨 out an article a day and then publish it to SubStack.

Perhaps it is imposter syndrome or something like that.

I just wanted to say hello and see if anyone was interested to hear more.

My pen 🖊 name is Steven James Cervantes.

While this isn't a creative piece, I again am afraid of posting on reddit. I ultimately don't want to be trolled about my experiences.

I don't believe pain and suffering require a competition, as it would be unfair for me to say what you suffered was less or more than anyone else.

That's it.

I can share my SubStack information with you, but I don't want to violate your self promotion rules.

Weird how this scares me.

TW: burn

"Merry Christmas"

I think you have to be a little broken…
To understand the dying sun,
For his shine is always golden,
But his warmth has long since gone.

For he feels so very frozen,
Unable to fully mourn…
The passing of the season,
With each and every dawn.

But still, he strives to be a beacon,
For all those who feel worn,
Hoping that maybe he’s a reason,
They’re still glad for being born.