I was on the beach with my family a couple of days ago. Generally just enjoying and taking in a relaxing late Summer day. I walked only a few feet away from my group to get a picture of a really cool dead tree and nearly stumbled over a dead bird. I audibly gasped, disgusted by the stark reality of life, and yet I continued on and took the pictures. On my way back to join my group I stopped to take a better look at the bird. I felt disgusted with myself for my initial reaction because
it's that guttural discomfort with the harsh realities of life that have kept me up at night. My own suffering has made me feel like a sideshow freak, the kind kept in the musty corner of the tent with signs warning that what you are about to see is not for the faint of heart, that it may upset women and children. My trauma feels like a chasm between myself and the rest of the world. I don't blame the gawkers or those who avert their eyes, I am them, I avoid the darkness. And yet I live here now, shrouded in my own pain and suffering, feeling I am too much for so many.