Triggered
The word in itself is a trigger. Hearing it, saying it aloud. ‘Triggered’ triggers a lot of people’s emotions. Or at least sometime’s it does to mine. It’s just a word. Part of our language. But it holds a lot of power. And I think in some way, I want to take a bit of its power back.
It’s incredible what will trigger you. One minute you can be sitting there, doing an everyday task, totally “normal”, and then your world will start spinning, your eyes will start wallowing, and your mind will become flooded. And then other times, its totally obvious that something might trigger you, you almost avoid it or have to prep yourself to confront it. I’m more in love with the moments that catch me by surprise. Because then I’m not guarded. I’m just feeling, truly in the raw.
Who’s allowed to get triggered? Do you have to go through some immense amount of pain and trauma to become a person who gets triggered? What’s the point of getting triggered? Questions I ask, not really wanting to try to answer right now as I sit here and type.
Point is, I’m triggered by the memory of you. And memories of you can be found everywhere and anywhere.
Sitting on the boat while looking at the family.
Walking past the old house on a still quiet morning at sunrise.
Looking at a black painting at the Nelson Atkins.
Catching the scent of something dead on the sidewalk.
Driving to Lawrence, KS.
Noticing our little brother looking more and more like you every day.
Walking into our home church.
Cleaning out your old room.
Watching a movie where they visit Paris.
Flipping through an old photo album.
A post about a month dedicated to suicide prevention.
Pull the trigger. Why is there so much weight to this word? Pull the trigger. Let the memories flood in. Because that’s how I keep you alive. Pull the trigger. So I get a chance to feel you. So I can be reminded you’re still here. Triggered memories trigger you.
I’m triggered.