Coping With PTSD

Sometimes our inner animal shows.
Obviously I'm more prey than predator. I'd definitely eat berries and grass and be very fast and gentle.

Other people are vicious, meaning deliberately cruel or violent. The kind that would play with their food before they killed it, enjoying their fear.

Someone gestured at me like they were going to strangle me. They weren't actually going to, they may not have even been physically capable of it, but they reminded me vaguely of my abuser and the violence is what put me past the point of control.

I traded places with someone else, or as the person phrased it "I ran away."
That is the eyes of a predator searching for their pray.

Some people going through this world tackling and conquering to get their ways; not realizing that kindness will take them as far if not rather, not to mention it feels better emotionally and physically as well.

But what irks me is when they see self preservation as fleeting. In animal terms, I was protecting myself from a creature that wanted to eat me.  And they saw it as feeing shamefully. They did not say this, but that is the connotation associated with running away.

Personally I hate when people view the world as theirs to control. Who stomp on everyone and consider those they hurt to be weak.
I do not know if this person had such a view, for I am triggered currently, causing the preciously associated the flavors of my trauma to mix with this reminiscent being.  Like how Earl Grey smells like fruit loops so it reminds you of their taste as well.

So here I am, in a dark corner shaking. Listening to music and hiding. Like I had to do for most of my adolescence if I wanted to escape and feel safe. Hidden. Protected by the object forest surrounding me.
I haven't been in danger for almost seven years now, and yet one angered gesture brings me back to this place.

It's like an emotional Tardis, bringing me right back to where I was so many moons ago.

Two years ago, I would've gone home. Today I'll be fine. I have learned the tricks to teach my brain that I am safe. I have a cup of water. An ice pack. Stones and music. I'm not near anyone else, because even a hand on my shoulder would make me jump.
I am grateful to be able to find a spot in this busy city where I'm not surrounded by hundreds of others.
I am writing. I am breathing.

I am terrified, though I know I am in no real danger. It's only my demons haunting me now.
I am safe.

This just needs to get out of my system, like the flu.
I just wish people understood mental health they way they do physical.
That said I will get through this. I'll count to ten like Kimmie Schmidt (who very notably also has PTSD) and eventually feel like me again.

I see where I am, I am aware of the stress, and I will not let it keep me here.