ptsd’s maid

it is the first time that i find myself closer to those disabled activists in canada who see MAID as the cheapest healthcare. 

my PTSD triggers are not anything about war, but the terror i am in when triggered, like now, has the texture of a constantly repeated physiological choc. over and over. internal structure breaks down, integrity breaks down, thinking breaks down, organs get hot, boundaries are affected. personhood disappears slowly. inflammation, pain, paralysis, dissociation. and then what?

of course, there is no cure that will magically erase my PTSD even if there are all sorts of coping mechanisms, some very personal, some more universal and i have a lot of them established. but, i am at the end of my rope of coping, like a clunky machine that continues to capitalize despite this or that worn out chain of bearings and cogs. until. it stops.

of course, there must be a place where i am not triggered as much and could possibly enjoy fractions of seconds of life, but my neurodivergence outside of PTSD makes it next to impossible to find.

actually: impossible. 

not there, not here, not with this friend, not with that one, not here, not there, not in this hospital, not in this retreat, not in this community, oh no, not there either. sorry, we can't accommodate for that. oh no, we can't allow for that. you have to. no. 

today i feel that my only path is to choose MAID or EXIT (in switzerland).

and yes, it would be a relief. the safe space of nothing?

still, i rebel. why isn't there a safe place for people like me? am i so different? i can't see; i can't understand why. i can't understand why my difference is not some kind of teaching or beauty like other's. 

why? why not?