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CONTENT NOTE

These essays and stories discuss trauma, addiction, intimacy, mental health, grief, and recovery. Please read at your own pace and take care of yourself.

Estimated reading time: 8–10 minutes

Trigger to my mouth

The past few days nearly killed me. My mind convinced me that I was once again in personal jeopardy after a loud noise sounded outside of my condo. I instantly hit the deck, flattened myself to the floor thinking that a stream of bullets was going to come crashing through my windows.

It seems irrational, especially considering the noise was probably nothing more than a car backfire—but in my mind, I was back there. Instantly, the cold winter air around me became hot and moist again. My room became the salon that we hid in and there I was. I left the safety of Canada for that brief few seconds for the warzone before reality brought me back once again.

And then I cried. I lay there on the floor, my arms wrapped around my head. Sobbing. I stayed like this for a good hour, feeling completely helpless in my cries. Now three days later, and I am still an emotional wreck. I barricaded myself in my room and withdrew from all my friends. I missed the important days I promised I would share with them. A housewarming, a birthday. Instead I sat in my bed, tears welled up in my eyes watching the same re-runs on my computer over and over again. Not eating. Not moving. Will there ever be a day when loud noises or specific smells or sounds or sights don’t take me back there? Where I can reside in beautiful and boring normalcy?

I think of the day that they pulled us out of the car. Dragged us on our sides across the red dirt and shoved us to the ground, guns cocked to the back of our heads. They kicked him in the ribs. Once. Twice. They demanded our papers. Our money. Our affiliation. After they took it all from us, they kicked him again and then let us on our way. We were lucky. We were of the “right” affiliation, so they only robbed us that day.

As I looked back, I saw others who were not spared. A line of bodies were sprawled along the grass, covered in blood, throats slit. They stayed there for weeks, rotting in the sun as families were unable to retrieve them.

I think of the day that we sped through that checkpoint. Past the woman, completely naked and red from head to toe in her own blood, who chased after our car as we sped along. We didn’t stop for her. I remember demanding him to stop, but he said no. If we stop, that will be you and me. We cannot help her. I see her face every time I look in the mirror. I see her pained expression as we ignored her and sped off. Left her for dead with those militia men.

I think of the weeks where we lay on the floor in the closet in the salon, with no lights, making virtually no sound so that the militia men wouldn’t hear us and know that we were inside. Their voices screaming and hooting as they looted and burned the homes and shops around us. The bullets that came crashing through our windows, landing on the floor nearby us. The pitter patter as they ricocheted off the metal rooftops, almost like a gentle rain. Feeling the tremors as the bombs landed nearby, the way they ever so gently shook the house and rattled the windows as they landed. The quiet calm in between where even the birds ceased their song.

I think of hearing my neighbour scream in absolute agony as they raped her. Lying there on the closet floor shaking, hoping, praying. Thinking, they are coming here next. There is nothing I can do to stop them. And feeling so unbelievably helpless. I remember thinking how at least it was her and not me and how awful that made me feel inside. Hearing her dog bark and bark at them as they did, then the gunshots. Then silence. No more screaming. No more barking. And then the complete panic as the flames danced on her rooftop and flickered onto our balcony as we prepared the little bit of water and sand we could muster to try and keep them at bay.

I think of the clouds of black smoke that billowed in the sky nearby our house and the sickening smell of burning flesh that accompanied it. Peering out the corners of the windows and watching as they wrapped the tires around their necks, doused them in kerosene and then set them alight.

Watching as the mob of men chased down a young man and hacked him to pieces with machetes until he was scattered across the earth, his red blood splashed across all of their faces. The gleam in their eyes and the look of exhilaration that made me feel instantly physically ill. The way they hooted and hollered as if in celebration as they skulked further down the road looking for their next victim.

These are some of the things I cannot erase.

They are there.

Stored in memory.

Forever.

No matter how I try to suppress them, there they come, flying back at me the moment a garbage can clangs or the subway rumbles underneath my feet in the city. I cannot avoid them. The triggers are everywhere. The word trigger even seems to trigger me, reminding me of my lack of normalcy. Reminding me that I am a person to be gentle with. That I am damaged, broken.

And I feel guilty. Guilty that I lived while they died. Guilty that I am having this reaction. Guilty that I got away with so little violence against my person in a place that was wracked with it. Guilty that I didn’t do more to help those I saw. Guilty that I am now able to be away from it while others still live it. Guilty that I have friends and family and access to medical care that can help me through my own pain while many are still living in agony. That I let down my friends and family and shut them out of my emotions. That I am now short with them all, snapping at the slightest thing and being much less tolerant than I once was. Guilty when I have to take a day off of work because I simply can’t face the day.Sometimes it is more than I can bear.

I close my eyes at night and see the bodies, see their faces, hear their screams. I close my eyes and the past comes back to life. So I avoid sleep.I try therapies and meditation and medications. Relief is not forthcoming.

And so I write. And hope that maybe, maybe one day I won’t feel as if a trigger is constantly looming over me, staring me in the face like a gun cocked in my mouth. That when I close my eyes, the bodies will be gone and instead a future may be seen.

That maybe, through this, my friends and family can finally understand some of what’s going on in my head and why I am the way I sometimes am without me having to sit down and explain it to them face to face. Without having to see that look of pity in their eye that they cannot help but give me. That maybe this will help me reconnect to some of them emotionally.

There are days that I feel so loved, and days where I feel so alone and the difference is only in my mind. I distance my emotions and try to numb myself from what I’m truly feeling. I joke about the past, occasionally dropping bombshells of what I have seen or done wrapped in nervous energy, but mostly suppress it.I’m tired of suppressing it. I’m tired of feeling ashamed about it. I want it out.

I’m scared to pull the trigger; scared to let this writing out into the world and sharing it with those I love; scared of the reaction that I may receive from them, but I can’t stop.

Please remember. I am the same person I was yesterday before you knew.

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Meet the Author

Bexxy Mov writes psychologically messy fiction and honest essays exploring trauma, addiction, recovery, and the complicated ways people survive.