I came across this sonnet by Andy Maudling called PTSD. A while ago I posted a striking metaphor for PTSD used by the journalist Tom Burgis in his book about contemporary Africa. “Drowning in my memories/They draw my every breath” is an arresting evocation of the pervasiveness of traumatic memory.
My mind is made of metal;
My weary eyes, they see as stone.
I fall like autumn petal,
As I wither to the bone.
A trunk with many rings; I am,
Much older than I seem.
A lifetime lost so long ago; I’m damned,
By all I’ve seen.
I’m drowning in my memories;
They draw my every breath.
My mind begins to ponder every,
Single state of death.
If I could cut my past adrift,
Maybe then a weight would lift.